Silverthorn

by Raymond Feist

  Jimmy slipped over the peak of the roof and crawled along until he was opposite the source of the noise. He need only glimpse the independent thief and report him. The Nightmaster would circulate the man’s description and sooner or later he would be paid a visit by some guild bashers who would educate him in the proper courtesies due the Mockers by visiting thieves. Jimmy edged upward and peered over the rooftop. He saw nothing. Looking about, he glimpsed a faint movement from the corner of his eye and turned. Again he saw nothing. Jimmy the Hand settled down to wait. There was something here that provoked his sensitive curiosity.

  That acute curiosity was one of Jimmy’s only weaknesses when it came to work—that and an occasional irritation with the need to divide his loot with the guild, which took a dim view of this reluctance. His upbringing by the Mockers had given him an appreciation of life—a skepticism bordering on cynicism—far beyond his years. He was uneducated but canny. One thing he knew: sound does not issue from thin air—except when magic is in play.

  Jimmy settled down a moment to puzzle out what he didn’t see before him. Either some invisible spirit was squirming about uncomfortably on the roof tiles, which while possible was highly unlikely, or something more corporeal was hidden deep within the shadows of the other side of the gable.

  Jimmy crawled along until he was opposite the gable and raised himself slightly to look over the peak of the roof. He peered into the darkness and when he heard another faint scuffling was rewarded with a glimpse of movement. Someone was deep within the gloom, wearing a dark cloak. Jimmy could locate him only when he moved. Jimmy inched along below the peak to gain a better angle to watch, until he was directly behind the figure. Again he reared up. The lurker moved, adjusting his cloak around his shoulders. The hair on the back of Jimmy’s neck stood up. The figure below him was dressed all in black and carried a heavy crossbow. This was no thief but a Nighthawk!

  Jimmy lay rock still. To stumble across a member of the Guild of Death at work was not likely to enhance one’s prospects of old age. But there was a standing order among the Mockers that any news of the brotherhood of assassins was to be reported at once, and the order had come down from the Upright Man himself, the highest authority in the Mockers. Jimmy chose to wait, trusting in his skills should he be discovered. He might not possess the nearly legendary attributes of a Nighthawk, but he had the supreme confidence of a fifteen-year-old boy who had become the youngest Master Thief in the history of the Mockers. If he was discovered, it would not be his first chase across the Thieves’ Highway.

  Time passed and Jimmy waited, with a discipline unusual for one his age. A thief who cannot remain still for hours if need be does not remain a living thief long. Occasionally Jimmy heard and glimpsed the assassin moving about. Jimmy’s awe of the legendary Nighthawks steadily lessened, for this one displayed little skill in staying motionless. Jimmy had long before mastered the trick of quietly tensing and relaxing muscles to prevent cramping and stiffening. Then, he considered, most legends tend to be overstated, and in the Nighthawks’ line of work it was only to their advantage to keep people in awe of them.

  Abruptly the assassin moved, letting his cloak fall away completely as he raised his crossbow. Jimmy could hear hoofbeats approaching. Riders passed below, and the assassin slowly lowered the weapon. Obviously those below had not included his intended prey.

  Jimmy elbowed himself a little higher to gain a better view of the man, now that his cloak didn’t mask him. The assassin turned slightly, retrieving his cloak, exposing his face to Jimmy. The thief gathered his legs under him, ready to spring away should the need arise, and studied the man. Jimmy could make out little, except that the man had dark hair and was light-complexioned. Then the assassin seemed to be looking directly at the boy.

  Jimmy’s heart pounded loudly in his ears and he wondered how the assassin could fail to hear such a racket. But the man turned back to his vigil, and Jimmy dropped silently below the roof peak. He breathed slowly, fighting back a sudden giddy urge to giggle. After it passed, he relaxed slightly and chanced another look.

  Again the assassin waited. Jimmy settled in. He wondered at the Nighthawk’s weapon. The heavy crossbow was a poor choice for a marksman, being less accurate than any good bow. It would do for someone with little training, for it delivered a bolt with thundering force—a wound less than fatal from an arrow could kill if from a bolt, because of the added shock of the blow. Jimmy had once seen a steel cuirass on display in a tavern. The metal breastplate had a hole in it the size of Jimmy’s fist, punched through by a bolt from a heavy crossbow. It had been hung up not because of the size of the hole, which was usual for the weapon, but because the wearer had somehow survived. But the weapon had its disadvantages. Besides being inaccurate past a dozen yards, it had a short range.

  Jimmy craned his neck to watch the Nighthawk and felt a tic in his right arm. He shifted his weight slightly to his left. Suddenly a tile gave way beneath his hand and with a loud crack it broke. It fell away, clattering over the roof to crash down on the cobbles below. To Jimmy it was a thunder peal sounding his doom.

  Moving with inhuman speed, the assassin turned and fired. Jimmy’s slipping saved his life, for he could not have dodged fast enough to avoid the bolt, but gravity had provided the necessary speed. He struck the roof and heard the quarrel pass over his head. For a brief instant he imagined his head exploding like a ripe pumpkin and silently thanked Banath, patron god of thieves.

  Jimmy’s reflexes saved him next, for rather than standing, he rolled to his right. Where he had lain a moment before, a sword came crashing down. Knowing he couldn’t gain enough of a lead to outrun the assassin, Jimmy leaped up into a crouch, pulling his dirk from his right boot top in a single motion. He had little love for fighting, but he had realized early in his career that his life might depend upon his use of the blade. He had practiced diligently whenever the opportunity had presented itself. Jimmy only wished his rooftop foray had not precluded his bringing along his rapier.

  The assassin turned to face the boy, and Jimmy saw him teeter for a brief instant. The Nighthawk might have quick reflexes, but he was not used to the precarious footing the rooftops offered. Jimmy grinned, as much to hide his fear as from any amusement at the assassin’s unease.

  In a hissing whisper the assassin said, “Pray to whatever gods brought you here, boy.”

  Jimmy thought such a remark odd, considering it distracted only the speaker. The assassin lashed out, the blade slicing the air where Jimmy had been, and the boy thief was off.

  He dashed along the roof and leaped back to the building wherein lived Trig the Fuller. A moment later he could hear the assassin landing also. Jimmy ran nimbly until he was confronted by a yawning gap. In his hurry he had forgotten there was a wide alley at this end of the building and the next building was impossibly distant. He spun about.

  The assassin was slowly approaching, his sword point leveled at Jimmy. Jimmy was struck by a thought and suddenly began a mad stomping dance upon the roof. In a moment the noise was answered by an angry voice from below. “Thief! I am undone!” Jimmy could picture Trig the Fuller leaning out his window, rousing the city watch, and hoped the assassin had the same picture in mind. The racket below would surely have the building surrounded in short order. He prayed the assassin would flee rather than punish the author of his failure.

  The assassin ignored the fuller’s cries and advanced upon Jimmy. Again he slashed and Jimmy ducked, bringing himself inside the assassin’s reach. Jimmy stabbed with his dirk and felt the point dig into the Nighthawk’s sword arm. The assassin’s blade went clattering to the street below. A howl of pain echoed through the night, silencing the fuller’s shouts. Jimmy heard the shutters slam closed and wondered what poor Trig must be thinking, hearing that shriek right over his head.

  The assassin dodged another thrust by Jimmy and pulled a dagger from his belt. He advanced again, not speaking, his weapon held in his left hand. Jimmy heard shouts from the street bel
ow and resisted the urge to cry for aid. He felt little confidence about besting the Nighthawk, even if the assassin was fighting with his off hand, but he was also reluctant to explain his presence upon the fuller’s roof. Besides, even should he shout for aid, by the time the watch arrived, gained entrance to the house, and reached the roof the issue would be decided.

  Jimmy backed to the end of the roof, until his heels hung in space. The assassin closed, saying, “You have nowhere left to run, boy.”

  Jimmy waited, preparing a desperate gamble. The assassin tensed, the sign Jimmy had watched for. Jimmy crouched and stepped backward all at once, letting himself fall. The assassin had begun a lunge, and when his blade did not meet the expected resistance, he overbalanced and fell forward. Jimmy caught the edge of the roof, nearly dislocating his shoulder sockets with the jolt. He felt more than saw the assassin fall past, silently speeding through the darkness to crash on the cobbles below.

  Jimmy hung for a moment, his hands, arms, and shoulders afire with pain. It would be so simple just to let go and fall into soft darkness. Shaking off the fatigue and pain, he urged protesting muscles to pull himself back onto the roof. He lay gasping for a moment, then rolled over and looked down.

  The assassin lay still on the cobbles, his crooked neck offering clear evidence he was no longer alive. Jimmy breathed deeply, the chill of fear finally acknowledged. He suppressed a shudder and ducked down as two men rushed into the alley below. They grabbed the corpse and rolled it over, then picked it up and hurried off. Jimmy considered. For the assassin to have confederates about was a certain sign this had been a Guild of Death undertaking. But who was expected down this street at this hour of the night? Casting about for a moment, he weighed the risk of staying a little longer to satisfy his curiosity against the certain arrival of the city watch within a few more minutes. Curiosity won.

  The sound of hoofbeats echoed through the fog, and soon two riders came into the light that burned from the lantern before Trig’s home. It was at this moment that Trig decided to open his shutters again and resume his hue and cry. Jimmy’s eyes widened as the riders looked up toward the fuller’s window. Jimmy had not seen one of the men in over a year, but he was well known to the thief. Shaking his head at the implications of what he saw, the boy thief judged it a good time to depart. But seeing that man below made it impossible for Jimmy to consider this night’s business at an end. It would most likely be a long night. He rose and began his trek along the Thieves’ Highway, back toward Mockers’ Rest.

  —

  Arutha reined in his horse and looked up to where a man in a nightshirt shouted from a window. “Laurie, what is that all about?”

  “From what I can make out between the wails and screams, I judge that burgher to have recently been the victim of some felony.”

  Arutha laughed. “I guessed that much myself.” He did not know Laurie well, but he enjoyed the singer’s wit and sense of fun. He knew there was now some trouble between Laurie and Carline, which was why Laurie had asked to accompany Arutha on his journey to Krondor. Carline would be arriving in a week with Anita and Lyam. But Arutha had long ago decided that what Carline didn’t confide in him wasn’t his business. Besides, Arutha was sympathetic to Laurie’s plight if he had fallen into her bad graces. After Anita, Carline was the last person Arutha would wish angry with him.

  Arutha studied the area as a few sleepy souls in neighboring buildings began shouting inquiries. “Well, there’s bound to be some investigation here soon. We’d best be along.”

  As if his words had been prophecy, Arutha and Laurie were startled to hear a voice coming out of the fog. “Here now!” Emerging from the murk were three men wearing the grey felt caps and yellow tabards of the city watch. The leftmost watchman, a beefy, heavy-browed fellow, carried a lantern in one hand and a large nightstick in the other. The center man was of advancing years, close to retirement age from appearances, and the third was a young lad, but both had an air of street experience about them, evidenced in the way they casually had their hands resting on large belt knives. “What passes this night?” the older watchman said, his voice a mixture of good-natured humor and authority.

  “Some disturbance in that house, watchman.” Arutha pointed toward the fuller. “We were simply passing by.”

  “Were you now, sir? Well, I don’t suppose you’d object to remaining for a few moments longer until we discover what this is all about.” He signaled to the young watchman to look around.

  Arutha nodded, saying nothing. At that point a red-faced puffball of a man emerged from the house, waving his arms while he shouted, “Thieves! They stole into my room, my very room, and took my treasure! What’s to be done when a law-abiding citizen isn’t safe in his own bed, I ask you?” Catching sight of Arutha and Laurie, he said, “Are these then the thieves, the vicious thieves?” Mustering what dignity he could while wearing a voluminous nightshirt, he exclaimed, “What have you done with my gold, my precious gold?”

  The beefy watchman jerked on the shouting man’s arm, nearly spinning the fuller completely around. “Here now, watch your shouting, churl.”

  “Churl!” shouted Trig. “Just what, I ask, gives you the right to call a citizen, a law-abiding citizen, a—” He stopped, and his expression changed to one of disbelief as a company of riders appeared out of the fog. At their head rode a tall, black-skinned man wearing the tabard of the captain of the Prince’s Royal Household Guard. Seeing the gathering in the streets, he signaled for his men to rein in.

  With a shake of his head, Arutha said to Laurie, “So much for a quiet return to Krondor.”

  The captain said, “Watchman, what is all this?”

  The watchman saluted. “That is what I was just undertaking to discover this very minute, Captain. We apprehended these two….” He indicated Arutha and Laurie.

  The captain rode closer and laughed. The watchman looked sidewise at this tall captain, not knowing what to say. Riding up to Arutha, Gardan, former sergeant of the garrison at Crydee, saluted. “Welcome to your city, Highness.” At these words the other guards braced in their saddles, saluting their Prince.

  Arutha returned the salute of the guardsmen, then shook hands with Gardan while the watchmen and the fuller stood speechless. “Singer,” said Gardan, “it is good to see you again, as well.” Laurie acknowledged the greeting with a smile and wave. He had known Gardan for only a brief while before Arutha had dispatched him to Krondor to assume command of the city and palace guards, but he liked the grey-haired soldier.

  Arutha looked to where the watchmen and the fuller waited. The watchmen had their caps off and the seniormost said, “Beggin’ Your Highness’s pardon, old Bert didn’t know. Any offense was unintended, Sire.”

  Arutha shook his head, amused despite the late hour and the cold weather. “No offense, Bert the Watchman. You were but doing your duty, and rightly so.” He turned to Gardan. “Now, how in heaven’s name did you manage to find me?”

  “Duke Caldric sent a full itinerary along with the news that you were returning from Rillanon. You were due in tomorrow, but I said to Earl Volney you’d most likely try to slip in tonight. As you were riding from Salador, there was only one gate you’d enter”—he pointed down the street toward the eastern gate, unseen in the fog-shrouded night—“and here we are. Your Highness arrived even earlier than I had expected. Where is the rest of your party?”

  “Half the guards are escorting the Princess Anita toward her mother’s estates. The rest are camped about six hours’ ride from the city. I couldn’t abide one more night on the road. Besides, there’s a great deal to be done.” Gardan looked quizzically at the Prince, but all Arutha would say was “More when I speak to Volney. Now”—he looked at the fuller—“who is this loud fellow?”

  “This is Trig the Fuller, Highness,” answered the senior watchman. “He claims someone broke into his room and stole from him. He says he was awakened by the sounds of struggle on his roof.”

  Trig interrupted. �
�They were fighting over my head, over my…very…head…” His voice trailed off as he realized who he was speaking to. “…Your Highness,” he finished, suddenly embarrassed.

  The heavy-browed watchman threw him a stern look. “He says he heard some sort of scream and, like a turtle, pulled his head back in from the window.”

  Trig nodded vigorously. “Like someone was doing murder, doing bloody murder, Your Highness. It was horrible.” The beefy watchman visited Trig with an elbow to the ribs at the interruption.

  The young watchman came from the side alley. “This was lying atop some trash on the street the other side of the house, Bert.” He held out the assassin’s sword. “There was some blood on the grip, but none on the blade. There’s also a small pool of blood in the alley, but no body, anywhere.”

  Arutha motioned for Gardan to take the sword. The young watchman, observing the guards and the obvious position of command assumed by the newcomers, handed up the sword, then doffed his own cap.

  Arutha received the sword from Gardan, saw nothing significant in it, and returned it to the watchman. “Turn your guards around, Gardan. It is late and there’s little sleep left this night.”

  “But what of the theft?” cried the fuller, shaken loose from his silence. “It was my savings, my life savings! I’m ruined! What shall I do?”

  The Prince turned his horse and came alongside the watchmen. To Trig he said, “I offer my sympathies, good fuller, but rest assured the watch will do their utmost to retrieve your goods.”

  “Now,” said Bert to Trig, “I suggest you turn in for what’s left of the night, sir. In the morning you may enter a complaint with the duty sergeant of the watch. He’ll want a description of what was taken.”