Legends of the Riftwar

by Raymond E. Feist

  Jimmy turned his attention to the climb. At least the bright light of morning showed the handholds well and they started to climb the low building beneath the window of the abandoned room in a workmanlike fashion. Flora had insisted on bringing along a bag of food she tied up in her skirt, and a small wineskin which Jimmy had tied to his belt. If anyone stops us I guess I could say we’re here to wash the windows, Jimmy thought as Flora moved up.

  Then Flora said, in a hoarse whisper, ‘Jimmy! There’s blood!’

  Flora looked down and showed Jimmy her hand, the palm of which was now smeared with a sticky brownish stain; the blood was nearly dried, so it had been there for a while. Jimmy took out his belt-knife and transferred it to his teeth; there were a few situations in which that was useful, and hostile entry into a room was one. He motioned for Flora to move to the side so he could pass.

  Maintaining careful track of his tongue–he kept his knife sharp–he crouched below the window, then threw himself in with a roll, dropping the blade and catching the hilt as eyes and knife-point probed all around.

  ‘Shit,’ he said calmly, sheathing the knife, turning and extending a hand. ‘She’s hurt. Come on.’

  Flora pulled herself up to the window and gasped at the sight of the blood on the floor–she knew almost as well as he did what constituted a serious wound–and when she saw Lorrie’s pale form lying amid the bloodstained cloth she put her hand over her mouth and plastered herself against the wall.

  ‘Banath protect us,’ she whispered. ‘She’s been murdered!’

  Jimmy went to one knee beside Lorrie’s pallet.

  ‘No, she’s breathing,’ he said in relief. But there was still a lot of blood around. ‘Lorrie,’ he called quietly. He touched her shoulder. ‘Lorrie,’ he whispered.

  The girl woke with a start and gasped as though drawing breath to scream. Jimmy hastily put his hand over her mouth. ‘It’s Jimmy,’ he said. ‘It’s all right. I’ve brought some food.’

  ‘We’ve brought you some food,’ Flora said, elbowing him aside. From her tone she had no intention of forgetting how much he’d protested when she’d asked him to buy the bread, cheese and wine they’d brought.

  ‘What happened?’ Jimmy asked. ‘Who did this?’

  Astonishingly, she smiled: ‘Me,’ she said. Even then, the resemblance to the Princess gave him a jolt. ‘I was climbing out of the window and somebody yelled.’ She pulled herself up on her elbows and looked at him groggily. ‘I was surprised and I slipped. My leg got caught on something.’ She lay back down again. ‘I put a bandage on it, but it hurts.’

  I’ll bet it does, he thought, looking at the tight sodden band-ages. Gods but she’s clumsy! That brought a stab of guilt: Well, she’s not a Mocker. Just a farm-girl.

  ‘There’s a lot of blood,’ Flora said. ‘You’d better let me take a look.’

  Lorrie blinked at her, then turned to Jimmy.

  ‘This is my friend Flora,’ he said. ‘She’s all right.’

  Lorrie nodded and struggled to sit upright, untying the string at her waist, then looked at Jimmy. ‘It’s on my leg,’ she said.

  Jimmy nodded. ‘Do you need help?’

  The girl stared at him, dumbfounded.

  ‘Jimmy,’ Flora said between her teeth, ‘turn around.’

  ‘Oh!’ he said and did so. As if I care, he thought. He heard Flora suck in her breath. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s bad,’ she said. ‘A really deep, nasty cut. I need you to go and get some things.’

  ‘Now wait a minute,’ he said, starting to turn around. The two girls immediately made such a fuss he stopped and kept his back to them. ‘What do you need?’ he asked, his tone surly.

  ‘Some powdered woundwort, some powdered yarrow and yarrow leaf tea, tincture of lady’s mantle, some willow bark tea, and–’ he could tell she hesitated, ‘–some poppy juice. And a fine needle and thread. Catgut, if you can get it. Waxed linen, if you can’t.’

  ‘What,’ he said after a moment, ‘nothing else? No dancing girls, no elephants, no…’

  ‘No poppy juice,’ Lorrie murmured. ‘I have to find my brother.’

  ‘You’re not going anywhere with that wound on your leg,’ Flora said. ‘Not today. Go!’ she snapped at Jimmy.

  He went, considerably annoyed. He’d already bought this Lorrie wine and bread, now he had to buy out an apothecary for her? What else was he going to be expected to do? Poppy juice! Did Flora know what poppy juice cost? Although Lorrie had said she didn’t want any. He thought about that as he walked along. No, better get it. With all that blood she must be hurting badly. Jimmy sighed. Why did good deeds always turn out to be so expensive?

  When he returned Lorrie was asleep again and Flora was looking thoughtful; she glanced up as Jimmy swung easily through the window.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, taking the medicines. Then after a pause: ‘Thank you a lot, Jimmy. Nobody’s ever been as kind to me.’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said gruffly, shrugging.

  Princess Anita, what have you done to me? he asked himself, feeling that it was only half a joke. I was never one to stint help to a friend, but this is ridiculous! Flora doesn’t need help, she’s landed in the honey pot, and I barely know this bumpkin! Even if she does look like you–like you would if you’d been born a bumpkin, that is.

  He noticed that Flora had made an effort to mop up the blood: there was a pile of soaked cloth in one corner, and the band-ages on Lorrie’s leg were fresh. The smell was still there, faint against the musty mildew and dust of the warehouse, but at least now they didn’t have to worry about someone noticing it dripping through the floorboards. She’d also gone for water, which was essential to someone who’d lost a lot of blood.

  Flora laid out the medicines and the needle and thread. Lorrie woke, though she seemed muddle-headed; Flora had probably given her the whole bottle of wine for the pain.

  ‘Help me turn her over,’ she said.

  He did, wincing as she uncovered the wound and went to work; he supposed modesty was less important when all that was bared was a section of thigh that looked as if it were on the way to a butcher’s shop. But he looked aside anyway.

  In a way it was less grit-your-teeth to have a wound of your own sewn up than to watch it done to someone else, unless you could just think of them as meat.

  Lorrie bore it well, not having to be held, just shivering and panting, and his initial good opinion of the girl went up several notches. Besides, he reflected, it would go on hurting her a lot longer than it would him.

  Flora’s doing a good job of work there, too, he thought: she wasn’t quite digit-agile enough to make a pickpocket, but she had neat hands for needle and thread.

  ‘We have something we have to ask you, Jimmy,’ Flora said, not looking up, as she tied off the last running stitch and cut the catgut with a small sharp knife.

  ‘No,’ he said to the wall. ‘I was thinking on my way back that you’d ask me for something else and the answer is no.’

  Lorrie opened her eyes and looked at him.

  ‘No!’ he said, looking away. Lorrie’s sad eyes were far too much like the Princess’s for comfort. It was hard to believe that he might be susceptible to a girl’s eyes, but he was very much afraid that he was.

  ‘My brother has been kidnapped,’ Lorrie said, her voice husky. ‘He’s only six years old.’ She took a deep breath, obviously trying to stop herself from crying. ‘They killed my parents and burned down our house and barn. There isn’t much left, but the land has value, and there’s still some stock and a wagon. I’ll give it all to you if you’ll help him.’

  ‘Do I look like the Constable to you?’ Jimmy asked. ‘And isn’t this something the constable should be doing?’ He gave Flora a look that said, Yes, this is something the Constable should do and you know it.

  ‘No one would believe me,’ Lorrie wailed. Flora shushed her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘All our neighbours thought my parents were killed by wild dogs or something and t
hat my baby brother was dragged off by them. But he wasn’t. There were two men. One big, the other skinny. They rode off on horseback and came here. Now they’ve moved on, going inland, and they’ve taken Rip with them. I can feel them getting further and further away.’ She broke down, weeping as though her heart would break. ‘Please find him. Please.’

  Jimmy looked at the two young women with astonishment. ‘How can I do that?’ he asked. Even if I wanted to, which I don’t. ‘I don’t know what these men look like, or where they’ve gone, I don’t know your brother, I don’t have a horse, and even if I did, I can’t ride. You’re asking the impossible!’

  ‘Be quiet!’ Flora hissed. ‘Go and think about it while I clean Lorrie up.’

  Thus dismissed, Jimmy sat looking out of the window. Why am I suddenly a villain? he thought, reminding himself not to pout. I already rescued her! Twice!

  After what seemed like a very long time–and one or two small, smothered sounds of pain, somehow more disturbing than the many he’d heard before–Flora said, ‘You can turn around now.’

  ‘Look,’ he said, noting how pale both girls were, ‘I’m not trying to be mean-spirited. It’s just that…’

  ‘That you’d rather not get involved any further,’ Flora finished for him.

  He raised a protesting finger. ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘You don’t have to,’ she said scornfully. ‘I know you, Jimmy. But…’

  Flora stopped and sighed, letting her shoulders droop. ‘Helping Lorrie’s not something you would have done in Krondor. I can’t help but be disappointed; I thought you’d changed.’

  Jimmy raised one eyebrow and tightened a corner of his mouth. He most certainly would have helped Lorrie, even in Krondor. But that wasn’t something that Flora would know; she’d never met the Princess and knew nothing about his feelings for her. And maybe it wasn’t something he wanted her to know. He glanced at Lorrie, who really did look very much like the Princess Anita, even to the haunted look the Princess had worn when thinking about her imprisoned father.

  Lorrie’s eyes shifted and met his. As he watched one crystal tear rolled silently down her cheek. Jimmy heaved a sigh. He was undone: there was no way he could walk away from those eyes and not feel less of a man.

  ‘All right, I’ll try,’ he said. He rose, every move speaking his reluctance. ‘I’m not making any promises, and I don’t know when I’ll be back.’ To Flora he said, ‘You’ll have to come up with a story to tell your aunt about why I’m gone.’

  ‘I’ll tell her you’re travelling for a bit…’

  ‘Tell her it’s an employment opportunity. Apprentice to a trader or something. Be vague; I didn’t tell you details–I’ll have a completely cooked-up story when I get back.’

  Flora nodded. ‘I think they’re moving northeast along the coast road,’ Lorrie said. ‘Try going that way first. And be careful. Those two killed my mother and father and Emmet handily enough and none of them were soft or weak. You watch yourself.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, ‘I will.’ He looked at Flora who was rolling up a bandage looking proud enough to pop. ‘Give my regards to your aunt, in case this takes a while.’

  She was up and giving him a fierce hug before he could say anything else. Then she released him and gave him a little push.

  ‘Go on then, and be careful.’ She crossed her arms beneath her breasts, looking grave. ‘You know where to find me.’

  Jimmy smiled at her and shook his head. She was changing so fast he hardly knew her. Then he turned away and climbed out of the window. First thing he should do, probably, would be to get a horse.

  ‘No,’ the innkeeper said indifferently. ‘Left just after dawn, they did. Same as always.’

  Jarvis Coe dropped a couple of coins on the bar. Surprising, he thought. From the way they were talking yesterday, I’d be expecting them to drink a long breakfast. Low-priced thugs rarely had much discipline or sense of purpose. If they did, they’d be in another line of work…or charging higher prices, at least.

  The innkeeper ignored the copper, polishing around it. His eyebrow twitched when silver rang beside the duller metal.

  ‘Which road did they take?’

  The coins vanished into the innkeeper’s big hand. ‘North on the coast road, same as always.’

  You couldn’t rent a horse at a stable, but you could buy one with the understanding that eventually the stable-owner would buy it back. Coe walked briskly through the North Gate, cursing the delay; it was a mildly warm late-season day, perfect for travelling–for his quarry, too, worse luck. Even then his trained eye caught details–the casual way the guards leaned on their spears and halberds, offset by the relaxed alertness of their captain’s eyes; and the state of their gear, which was worn but serviceable. From everything he heard, the lord of Land’s End had taken an unusual position on the care of his barony’s main town; he had garrisoned the bulk of his army–some two hundred men-at-arms–in the old fortification on the edge of the city, and had kept only a small honour-guard in his household estates many miles away. But he had no heir, so perhaps he felt the safety of the citizens outweighed his own.

  Administration seemed to be left to the one royal magistrate in the district, the leaders of the town’s guilds and the harbour-master. It was probably a fair enough system as long as war didn’t break out, or the Duke call up a levy. But the local garrison had come to neglect the countryside: there was not even so much as a regular patrol between the old castle and the Baron’s country estates up the coast.

  That had left the countryside in disarray. It didn’t take much by way of neglect for bandits to move in. Or for a dozen local bullies to decide they’d rather rape women and steal sheep than work. And the local constable had neither the time nor resources to really enforce the law, short of a baronial order or a writ from the magistrate.

  Coe reflected on this odd state of affairs as he walked through the gate. Land’s End was still more of a large town than a small city, comprised of the usual gaggle of trades and workshops impractical or illegal inside a walled city, so no true foul bourg had been allowed to spring up outside the walls, but a thriving open market had been established beyond the clearing under the wall. He headed for the unmistakable smell of a dealer in horses, and slowed as he drew near.

  ‘Master Jimmy!’ he said. ‘This is a pleasant surprise. How’s your young foster-sister?’

  If Jimmy was equally surprised he made a masterful job of hiding it. In fact, his dark eyes were level, coolly considering, beyond his years, even if he had grown up rough and quickly, which Coe would wager he had.

  Looking him up and down, Coe revisited a judgment he had formed aboard ship about Jimmy: barely a boy, well short of fifteen summers. But a very unusual and gifted boy. Inside that egg of boyhood is a man tapping at the shell, and a dangerous one, too, from all appearances. Curly brown hair–badly cut, likely with a knife–contrasted with carefully respectable but not showy tunic and trousers; Coe suspected that the boots hadn’t acquired their wear on Jimmy’s feet.

  But here was the thing, Coe thought, he carries himself without a trace of adolescent awkwardness. He moves like an acrobat, as fluid as a cat sensing everything around him; he has the trick of avoiding people without needing to watch for them, deftly slipping through crowds without jostling them. Coe smiled. Perhaps that wasn’t entirely true, but should Jimmy bump into someone on the street, Coe suspected it would be intentional.

  The sword at his side was enough to catch the interest: it was a tall man’s blade, far too richly hilted for the part the boy was playing, of someone on the ragged edge of gentility. But Coe suspected that the blade was of equal quality to the guard and scabbard, which would make it worth the rent of a dozen farms. And more to the point of how it had come into his hands, the boy could use it with enough skill to make challenging him a very hazardous choice. Even now, a wise man will be careful. This one is quick as a ferret, I’ll wager, and would give as little warning when he went for the
throat.

  ‘Flora? She’s making Aunt Cleora very happy,’ Jimmy said. ‘Nice to see you again, sir.’

  ‘And you, my lad. Are you looking for work as a stablehand?’

  ‘Gods no, sir!’ Jimmy grinned. ‘I know nothing of horses. But I’ve got to take the coast road a way and I guess I’ll need one.’

  ‘In which direction?’ Coe asked.

  Jimmy gave him a suspicious look. ‘Uh, north, east.’ He shrugged.

  ‘The very way that I’m going,’ Jarvis said cheerfully. ‘Why don’t we ride together?’

  Without waiting for an answer, he called to the stable-master to saddle another mount and before Jimmy could object, tossed a gold coin to the man, saying, ‘We’ll wish to sell them back when we return.’

  Catching the coin, the stable-master said, ‘If you bring them back sound, I’ll buy them.’

  Turning to look at Jimmy, Coe smiled and said, ‘There. It’s done.’

  If the boy resented such highhandedness, he hid it well. All he said was: ‘I’m not experienced.’

  ‘Make it a gentle one,’ Coe called to the stable-master.

  ‘I don’t want to hold you up, sir,’ Jimmy said.

  ‘I’m sure you won’t, Jimmy. I’m not planning to gallop–like a man, a horse can walk further than it can run. Do you have any supplies?’ Or anything more than the clothes on your back, that absurdly grand blade, and a suspiciously large amount of hard cash?

  ‘Uh, no. I thought I’d arrange a horse, then buy what I need in the market,’ Jimmy said. ‘As I said, sir, I don’t want to delay you.’

  ‘Not at all, not at all,’ Jarvis said, giving the lad a hearty slap on the back. ‘And as I said, I’m in no mad rush. Where are you bound?’

  There was something about the boy that didn’t ring true. He couldn’t put his finger on it. But he and his so-called foster-sister, young as they were, struck him as rather more experienced and less benign than they were trying to seem. He was intrigued and wanted to know more. I always do. It’s one thing that makes me good at my job, he thought with flat realism. And it was something of a bonus that he could indulge his curiosity without going out of his way. This time. On other occasions, that curiosity had led him into situations in which someone ended up dead.