The Riftwar Legacy: The Complete 4-Book Collection. Raymond E. Feist

Malac’s Cross and here, stopping in at Silden each way. I last saw him there, so he may be on his way toward us right now. He drives a trader’s waggon painted green, with his name in red letters on the side.’

      Owyn winced at the description. ‘We can hardly miss that.’

      James’s expression turned dark. ‘We found this spider this morning among the bodies of the dead lancers.’

      Waylander said, ‘It can’t be the same one, then!’

      ‘Why?’ demanded James.

      ‘I bought one from Abuk, but I gave ours to the false Nighthawks who were sent to kill Damon Reeves.’

      James looked at the device and said, ‘There may be more than one, but you’ll need more proof of your innocence than that.’

      Waylander examined the spider, then said, ‘Look!’ He pointed to the groove containing the poison. ‘I don’t know what this is, but mine had deadly nightshade in it!’

      Gorath said, ‘Silverthorn would be hard to locate this far south.’

      ‘But not impossible,’ said James. ‘Still, I’m inclined to believe you. What about the spyglass?’

      ‘I don’t know anything about that,’ said Waylander, ‘but it’s the sort of thing Abuk trades for as well.’

      James led the others to the door. ‘Get to the Earl, Michael,’ he said. ‘You and Arle should be there before sundown tomorrow if you value your heads. We’re in the inn until dawn, and then we’re going south.’

      ‘I’ll walk with you as far as Arle’s house,’ said Waylander. ‘And then we’ll see the Earl tomorrow. Where south are you going?’

      ‘First to Silden to find Abuk and those three men you mentioned. If we have any luck, we’ll put paid to this mess within a few days.’ Waylander said nothing, and James knew it was because even if all the Nighthawks and Crawler’s men vanished overnight, there would still be crimes to pay for. But even years in a dungeon, thought James, were better than dying. At least in a dungeon there was the chance of escape.

      The last thought made him smile as he headed up the road toward the inn.

      

      As they neared the town of Silden, they slowed. A band of men were also riding toward the town, coming in from the west. ‘We don’t know they’re looking for us,’ said James. ‘But as many times as you’ve been attacked, Gorath, I’d just as soon wait to see what they’re up to.’

      Gorath had no disagreement, so he remained silent. The riders crossed over the bridge which arched over the River Rom into the town proper. Because it was built on a bluff that sloped down to a deep harbour, Silden had no foulbourgh outside the city walls. Rather, a series of small villages dotted the coastline around the bay of Silden, and a large village dominated the western shore of the bay, on the other side of the bridge.

      They rode into the northern gate of the city, and passed a bored-looking pair of city watchmen. James turned to Owyn and asked, ‘Any friend or relatives here?’

      ‘Not that I’m aware of,’ said Owyn. ‘Or at least none my father would admit to.’

      James laughed. ‘I can understand that. This isn’t exactly a garden spot, is it?’

      Silden was only important to two groups: those who lived in it and smugglers. The majority of trade coming up the river to the north entered through the much larger trading port of Cheam, which had spacious docks, a huge warehouse district, and was the second largest port on the north shore of the Kingdom Sea after Bas-Tyra. Silden was therefore a far more profitable destination for those seeking to conduct business without benefit of Kingdom Customs officers. They made an attempt to curtail smuggling, but with the host of villages within a day’s ride to the east and west, keeping smuggling under control was impossible. As a result, control of Silden had for years been an ongoing goal of competing criminal gangs, from the Mockers of Krondor, Keshian drug smugglers, and bully gangs from Rillanon, to an alliance of local thieves. This constant struggle had turned Silden into the closest thing to an open city seen in the Eastern Realm of the Kingdom.

      The Earldom of Silden, while a reasonably attractive fiefdom, with rents and income sufficient to keep a noble family in style, was an absentee office. The last Earl of Silden had died during the Riftwar, in the great attack by King Rodric IV against the Tsurani in the final year of the war. King Lyam had yet to award the Earldom to anyone, which was fine with the Duke of Cheam, who presently enjoyed the income from the property in the Earldom. James was of the opinion it should be turned into a proper duchy and run from here in the city. A resident noble would clear up a lot of the problems of this valuable port city. He would have to mention it to the Prince when he returned, but for the moment, it was still a neglected, backwater town without proper oversight.

      The upshot of this situation was an almost complete absence of law and order in Silden, beyond that which was enforced by the local constabulary. And from what James could tell, it ended where the market district of the city turned into the waterfront, and at a boulevard marked by a sign of four gulls in flight. One side of the street was marked by prosperous-looking shops and homes, the other by inns and warehouses. Down the middle of the street a long red line had been painted.

      ‘What is that?’ asked Gorath as they rode across to it.

      ‘A deadline,’ said James. ‘If you’re brawling over there, no one cares. Brawl on this side, and you’re off to the work gangs.’

      He motioned for them to cross the deadline and as they entered the dock district, he said, ‘Ah, I love a town where they let you know how things stand with no apology.’

      Gorath looked at Owyn and shrugged. Then he asked, ‘Why is it called a deadline?’

      Owyn said, ‘In the past if you were caught after curfew on the wrong side by the soldiers of the King, you were hanged.’

      They rode through a series of dark streets, bounded on either side by high warehouses, and crossed another fairly large street, rumbling with waggons and large men pushing carts piled high with goods. Then they were looking at the harbour below, a jumble of docks and jetties, some stone, mostly wood, pushed hard against one another. Small boats were moving in and out of the harbour. Silden was blessed with one saving grace, the high bluffs upon which the three riders now stood, which provided shelter from the harshest winter storms.

      James conducted them down the long roadway which led to the docks and pointed to an inn in front of which hung a sign made from an old ship’s anchor, painted white. A modest stabling yard stood to the side and when James rode in, a grubby-looking boy hurried over. ‘Pick their feet, give them hay and water, and rub them down,’ said James as he dismounted.

      The boy nodded and James said, ‘And tell whoever’s interested that I would consider it a personal courtesy if these animals were here in the morning.’ He made a small gesture with his thumb and the boy nodded slightly.

      ‘What was that?’ asked Owyn.

      As they entered the Anchorhead Inn, James said, ‘Just a word dropped in the proper ear.’

      ‘I mean the thing with the thumb and fingers.’

      ‘That’s what let the boy know I deserved to be listened to.’

      The common room was seedy and dark, and James looked around at its clientele. Sailors and dockhands, soldiers of fortune looking for an outward-bound ship, ladies of negotiable virtue, and the usual assortment of thugs and thieves. James took them to a table in the rear and said, ‘Now we watch.’

      ‘For what?’ asked Gorath.

      ‘For the right person to show up.’

      ‘How long do we wait?’ asked Owyn.

      ‘In this hole? A day, two at the outside.’

      Gorath shook his head. ‘You humans live like … animals.’

      ‘It’s