Legends of the Riftwar

by Raymond E. Feist

  Jimmy led the girl down toward the warehouse district on the wharves. In his experience he’d discovered that one could usually find an abandoned space or two or more there. Besides, a lot of these places were sparsely patrolled; one or two watchmen to a row and those weren’t usually the most alert of men. Or the most curious.

  He kept them to the shadows, which resulted in a lot of trip-ping on Lorrie’s part. At first he’d been sympathetic, then amused, but now she was beginning to curse and he was worried that she’d attract attention. The watchmen probably would not come looking, but if he and Lorrie forced themselves on them they wouldn’t turn a blind eye.

  ‘Lorrie,’ he whispered, ‘we have to be quiet.’

  ‘I can’t see where I’m going!’ she said between her teeth.

  Jimmy stuck his tongue in his cheek and took a long, deep breath. He knew better than to get involved with ordinary citizens, they were nothing but trouble, yet here he was dragging one around by the hand. ‘I understand, but could you at least stop swearing? Out loud, I mean.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry.’

  They moved on. He was looking for somewhere run-down, preferably abandoned. But all the warehouses they’d passed so far seemed tightly locked and well tended. Land’s End seemed to be a busy port, for all it was a smaller one than Krondor. This close to Kesh I suppose it would be, Jimmy thought. Then he spotted a likely-looking place. He led the girl to a dark recess between two buildings. ‘I’m going to scout around,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you take a bit of a rest?’

  She didn’t say anything for a moment, then, in a highly suspicious voice she asked, ‘Why?’

  Nothing but trouble, he thought. ‘Because I think I’ve seen a place where you can sleep for free. But I’ve got better night-sight than you do and I don’t want to drag you over there for nothing. I’ll be right back. I promise.’

  ‘Oh!’ she said, sounding as if the idea of free lodging had never occurred to her. ‘All right.’

  Jimmy gave her shoulder a pat and moved off. The place had stairs to the second storey and he put one foot on the bottom step very lightly, only to have it squeak even when he kept his weight to the inner side of the riser. Going up there would probably make enough noise to wake the dead; he was going to have to find another way up.

  After looking around he found a shorter building that backed up to his chosen site; the peak of its roof was just below a single window, and the shorter building was eminently climbable. He tested the route and found the window unlocked. Slipping inside…

  A nice, long-deserted attic room over the main warehouse. Probably used to store occasional high-value cargo–brandy, say, or spices. It held very little now, a keg or two of what was probably nails, one or two bolts of cheap sacking cloth, some broken furniture and a wealth of dust. Jimmy walked carefully, but the floor was solid oak planks which were neatly pegged and made no noise: that sort of construction lasted forever if it was kept dry, and the roof seemed very sound. The door to the main loft opened inward–but there were crates stacked in front of it, almost touching his chest when he stepped into the doorframe. He gave an experimental shove and found he couldn’t move them. At least not without more noise and effort than he wanted to make. He pushed his knife gently through a crack between two slats, and it chinked dully when it hit the cargo within, but straw and willow-withy padding showed too.

  Crockery of some sort, he thought. Damned heavy. Good as having a fortress wall in front of you–you could hear them hours before they cleared the door–and the only other way in is the window.

  Doubtless others before him had found the building below to be the perfect route into this warehouse and the owner had moved to block them.

  ‘Perfect,’ he said, rubbing his hands together.

  Lorrie was exactly where he’d left her, sitting with her back against the building.

  ‘C’mon,’ he said. ‘I’ve found a place to stay.’

  She was a game little thing, he had to admit, if far too trusting. I could be a slave-taker, or a brothel agent, or just a freelance rape-and-murder artist. This one is a little lamb far from home.

  Once he’d described their route to the window and started to climb she followed him without question or complaint. Once they were in the room he began unrolling one of the bolts of cloth.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked, sneezing at the dust he was raising.

  As he’d thought, once you got through the first few layers the cloth was clean and dust-free, though still smelling sour from long storage. ‘Making you a bed,’ he said with a grin.

  ‘I can’t use that,’ she said, sounding honestly horrified.

  ‘Of course you can,’ he reassured her. ‘You’re only borrowing it. What harm can you do it by sleeping on it? Besides it’s obviously been here for years, so no one’s missing it.’ When she still hesitated he rolled his eyes and continued, ‘And if you leave it the way we found it no one will ever know.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ Lorrie said. She grabbed the other bolt. ‘Perhaps one day I’ll be able to do a good turn for the man who owns it.’

  Jimmy kept unrolling cloth, looking toward her shape in the darkness. Honest people never failed to amaze him.

  Together they arranged the cloth into a reasonably comfortable bed and Lorrie thanked him. Jimmy considered trying to steal a kiss from her, then decided that might complicate things too much.

  Then she decided to complicate things by asking, ‘Will I see you again?’

  ‘I’ll check here tomorrow,’ he said. ‘If you’re still here I’ll see you then.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. Reaching out, she found his hand and shook it.

  She had calluses on her hands, he noted, but the hand felt small and shapely, her teeth were good, and she was tall for her age: working folk, but not poor. ‘You’re welcome.’ He felt suddenly awkward. ‘Good night.’

  ‘Good night.’

  Jimmy climbed out the window and down the other building, then headed back to Aunt Cleora’s house.

  That was strange, he thought. He wondered what had brought the country girl into the big city. Especially disguised as a boy. He’d like to see her in daylight, see if that glimpse he’d had of her had told the truth. Did she really resemble the Princess as much as he’d thought? Maybe he would return tomorrow. Time permitting.

  TEN

  The Baron

  The sleeper tossed and moaned.

  Outside the room the guards ignored the sounds, for they had heard them before; it was a rare night the Baron slept the night through without the dreams. The guards were hard men, picked for their ability to ignore the strange goings-on inside the baronial home as much as for their ability to defend their liege. They were all former mercenaries, men whose loyalty was to gold, not tradition, and they were content to be oblivious to the screaming that often came from their master’s quarters, or other parts of the mansion.

  Bernarr ap Lorthorn, Baron of Land’s End, vassal to Lord Sutherland, Duke of the Southern Marches, writhed in troubled sleep. He knotted his fine linen sheets in clutching fists and struggling limbs, the fabric already damp with perspiration. In his dreams he was not the scrawny, ageing man with limp grey hair of his waking hours, but young and strong and deeply in love with his beautiful wife Elaine.

  Please, no, he thought. The lips of his aged body whimpered the words. Please, no.

  The dreams were wonderful, and hateful, beyond description. They were always the same, as if he were riding in the mind of his younger self, seeing and smelling, tasting and feeling as he had–but in some lost corner of his mind he knew how the story ended. Disaster loomed on the horizon, rearing like some ghastly fortress of demons beyond the edge of time, casting a shadow that made all the beauty and glory a sickness. Yet he was doomed to relive the past in his dreams, to endure the joy and wonder, only to find, at the last…

  He’d met her in Rillanon.

  It was early summer when he first visited Rillanon, a time of flowers,
blossoms everywhere. Wherever his glance fell a riot of nature’s favourite colours gladdened the eye. Even the wharfside taverns bore window-boxes or were wrapped in some flowering vine.

  As he left the docks, on horse, to ride to the King’s palace, the sheer magnificence of the Kingdom’s capital took his breath away. He hated even to blink for fear of missing some new and even more beautiful sight; only a lifetime’s practice enabled him to ride the unfamiliar horse through the crowded streets without being thrown off, while his eyes were captivated and his mind beguiled.

  The city was built upon hills wound round with silver ribbons of rivers and canals. It seemed that Rillanon had no top, but kept reaching up to the clouds forever. Graceful bridges arched over the waterways. Countless spires and slender, crenellated towers bore colourful banners and pennons, all fluttering in the breeze as though applauding the wind.

  His heart, so heavy since his father’s death during the winter, lifted at the sight. Bernarr’s eyes teared with pride and his heart swelled at the great honour of being a part of the Kingdom of the Isles.

  Thank the gods duty delayed me, he thought. This must be the most beautiful of seasons in the most beautiful of cities. I have seen her at her best, and the image shall be in my heart always.

  He’d come to offer his fealty to the King and be installed as the new Baron of Land’s End. Traditionally, his demesne was part of the Western Realm, and his master, Lord Sutherland, was vassal to the Prince of Krondor, but it was traditional that every noble of the Kingdom, no matter from how distant a province, made a journey within as short a time as possible to kneel before the King in the ancient birthplace of the nation.

  Then came a whirl of images: settling into his guest quarters, touring the city and its environs, meeting the many scholars he’d corresponded with, visiting booksellers with as many as a hundred volumes in their collections.

  Then a moment of clarity from that time returned: I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my life, he had realized suddenly one day, letting a heavy volume in his lap fall closed. I don’t want to go home, to settle suits over cows and count the arrows in the storerooms and talk of crops and hunting and weather, pointless patrols along a border Kesh rarely troubles, instructing captains to set to sea to chase pirates out of Durbin. I wish I could stay here, for all my days, among the learned and wise, among those who understand the value of knowledge…!

  Stop, the old man’s lips said silently, as his hands plucked at the coverlets. Tears squeezed out from beneath the thin wrinkled lids of his eyes. Oh, please, stop now.

  Bernarr took his hands from between his liege’s and rose, looking up into the careworn face. He was close enough to smell the cinnamon-and-cloves scent of spiced wine on the older man’s breath, and to see the slight dark circles of worry beneath his eyes. The court was a blaze of colour around them.

  The ceremony was quickly over. King Rodric the Third, a tired, anxious-looking man, offered a few words to the new baron, then Bernarr was hustled quickly away by court functionaries: there were others behind him and the King had many men to greet. Somehow he knew he would never again see this king, and that soon after leaving Rillanon, Bernarr would receive word that the King had died, and his son, likewise named Rodric, would assume the crown.

  Receptions and audiences, a brief encounter with Prince Rodric, and the days flew. The provincial baron was viewed with indifference by most of the resident courtiers, though a few showed envy at the Prince’s interest in the scholarly young noble from the west. Alone of those in court only Lady Lisabeth, one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, showed a personal interest in Bernarr, but her stout figure and lecherous demeanour repulsed him. She didn’t want him; she wanted any man with a title; even a country noble like Bernarr could see that.

  The memory that was a dream was vivid. Bernarr almost jumped a foot when Lisabeth popped out of the bushes as he made his way to the centre of the maze, intending to read in solitude amid the pleasant smell of green and growing things. The tinkle of the fountain would be his only company. He quickly adjusted his expression to an indifferent mask. ‘My lady,’ he said coolly, with a slight bow. Then, clutching his book, he moved on.

  She begged his attention, and balancing between being polite and curt, he attempted to disengage from her grasp as he explained he sought solitude, not company. He saw her lips move and remembered fragments of the conversation, but it blurred a moment, then came suddenly into focus as a peal of merry laughter was followed by a voice: ‘Oh, Lisabeth, let the gentleman get on with his studies and come away with me, do. We need another to play at cards and we would welcome your company.’ Bernarr turned his attention away from the unpleasant visage of Lady Lisabeth to find himself confronted by a vision in a plain green gown.

  No! The old man’s voice keened through the dark closeness of his bedchamber. Not this! Please, not this! Let me wake, let me wake!

  It was as though someone had taken his book and clubbed him over the head with it. All he could see was the young woman’s sparkling green eyes and the lush fall of her dark hair, the white column of her throat and that sweet, sweet smile. Birds with plumed tails and rings of silver on their claws walked about her, and the trumpet-vines behind her trembled purple and crimson in the breeze that moved wisps of her hair. His heart leapt at sight of her.

  The Lady Lisabeth appeared momentarily annoyed at the interruption. Then she glanced at Bernarr and threw up her hands. ‘I see that you are right, Elaine,’ she said and moved toward her friend. ‘The Baron has no time for me.’

  As they prepared to move away, Bernarr came to life again, feeling a wrenching sorrow he could not name, one that squeezed his heart and chest like the shadow of future grief. ‘My Lady Lisabeth,’ he said breathlessly, ‘will you not introduce me to your friend?’

  Although an angry flush appeared in her cheek, Lisabeth was not in a position to refuse an introduction to a baron. ‘My lord, may I present the Lady Elaine du Benton.’ Her tone and manner were perfunctory. ‘Her family has a small estate outside Timons.’ Lisabeth took evil delight in stressing the word small.

  ‘Enchanted,’ he said, softly, his voice barely above a whisper. It is no courtly flattery, he thought, for she has cast a spell over me with but one smile.

  Elaine curtseyed, her eyes downcast, she did not rise.

  Lisabeth rolled her eyes impatiently. ‘My lady Elaine, I have the honour to present Lord Bernarr, Baron of Land’s End.’

  Elaine rose with a radiant smile and offered her hand to him. He took it gently and kissed it, suddenly, painfully aware of the ink-stains on his long fingers.

  ‘I am delighted, Baron,’ Elaine said.

  She had dimples. For the first time he could see why they were considered pretty.

  ‘Please excuse us,’ Elaine said, ‘our friends are waiting.’

  ‘Of course. I hope to see you again soon, my lady.’ He bowed, and it took every shred of willpower he possessed to release her delicate fingers from his grip.

  They were already moving away, arm in arm. Just before they turned the crisp corner of the hedge Elaine turned and gave him a shy smile and a little wave of her hand. That easily she made him her slave.

  The dream burred, and bits of memory flashed through his mind. Days and weeks passed and their acquaintance hardly progressed. He contrived reasons to be near her, yet he never seemed to find the opportunity to speak to her alone. She always had a previous engagement, or her duties to the Queen prevented any meeting. He found himself intruding on groups of younger courtiers when she was allowed away from duties and was with her friends. They regarded him as an interloper, but his rank provided him a great shield against their youthful disdain, and his blindness to others when Elaine was near prevented him from seeing their mocking amusement at his obvious infatuation. The more she eluded him, the more he desired her. Despite his nearly thirty years of age, despite his responsibility as Baron and his years of running the barony while his father lingered ill, he was unprepare
d for a girl barely more than half his age. Knowing next to nothing about Elaine, he found himself falling deeper and deeper in love with her.

  Longingly, he thought of her during every waking moment and in his dreams: for she seemed to him everything that was lovely and feminine and sweet. It was impossible that he could love her this deeply and she could feel nothing for him; she must just be hiding her feelings, waiting for a time when they were alone.

  The part of Bernarr that was an old man in a lonely bed no longer begged. It panted slightly, like a beaten dog lying in the dust, scarcely flinching as the whip fell.

  Baron Hamil de Raise was a nobleman who exercised considerably more court influence than Bernarr, and had some real wealth as well: there were ancestral banners and weapons on the panelled walls of his chambers, but also instruments and books. It had been his scholarly interests that had caused him and Bernarr to gravitate to one another.

  Their early meetings flickered through Bernarr’s mind without sound, glimpses of a glass of wine shared, a banquet where they sat nearby and exchanged pleasantries, then suddenly the dream became vivid, as if reliving a memory.

  Hamil was leading Bernarr down a dark street in a seedier part of the city. The stench of garbage in the alley they passed before reaching their destination was vivid, as was the sound of bootheels grinding in the damp gravel and mud. Hamil said, ‘Hers is a very minor family, of no particular consequence, fine old name, originally a line of court barons from Bas-Tyra, but now reduced to the one lone estate in the south. Her father is an active embarrassment to the proud name. What remains of it. He’s been stripped of every hereditary title his forebears gained, and clings with near desperation to the rank of “Squire”, which the Crown permits as an act of courtesy. She is merely “Lady du Benton”. He’s a most intemperate gambler who has squandered considerable wealth over the years. With no male heir, the line dies with him and I’d wager the Crown forecloses on the estate.’