Jimmy the Hand. Raymond E. Feist

really mean to do this, don’t you?’

      ‘Why not?’ he countered, his eyes gleaming with excitement. ‘What better chance will anyone have? What patriotic citizen of Krondor could pass it up?’

      ‘All right,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I’ll help you.’

      That took him aback; he hadn’t meant to convert her. ‘I can handle it,’ he said firmly. ‘No need for you to risk getting caught again.’

      ‘He’s supposed to be ill, Jimmy. You may need some help with him.’

      She gave him a steady look until he nodded reluctantly. Then he went to work on the cell’s lock. It was tougher than he’d expected, but then, it was supposed to keep common prisoners in, not lock-crackers with a full set of picks. He worked the tumblers by feel, by the tension of the wire struts bending under his fingers, and for the first time blessed Long Charlie for all those tedious drills. Flora stood beside him, her body taut with fear, keeping an eye out for the guards. Then the last probe sprang back; there was a click sound from within the heavy lock-plate, and they both winced at the protesting squeal of the hinges.

      ‘Which way?’ he wondered aloud.

      ‘They brought us in that way,’ Flora said, nodding left down a corridor of mortared stone; what little light there was came from a round sun-well in the ceiling, no bigger than the diameter of a man’s head.

      ‘There were two large cells before this one, but little else. So I think we should go this way.’ She pointed to the right and then quickly moved off.

      ‘Better let me go first,’ Jimmy said. ‘I’ve got something I can use in case we meet anyone.’

      Flora raised an eyebrow, but didn’t object.

      Jimmy moved ahead of her, feeling awkward because while what he’d said was true the real reason he wanted to be first was, well …

      Because I want to be first. And he suspected Flora knew it.

      The corridor they followed was dark and narrow. Jimmy couldn’t imagine why it was laid out this way, unless the proposed inhabitants were supposed to be owls and cats. He thought that it actually worked to their advantage though, providing them with cover when they needed to look around a corner, to see if the way was clear. So far, there was no one here to notice them. Every cell they’d checked on their way was empty.

      Which surprised him; he’d been sure del Garza was jailing anyone he felt like throwing into the dungeon. And given Jocko Radburn’s personality, Jimmy had been sure he’d find half the city behind bars. At least the official half.

      He was getting impatient; they’d been walking so long it felt as if they must be all the way on the other side of the keep by now.

      Then the flickering light of a torch outside a cell up ahead revealed the presence of a guard. A Bas-Tyran from his black and gold uniform and nearly asleep, even standing up and leaning on his halberd, judging from the way his helmeted head kept nodding off and then jerking up again. Sleeping standing up seemed to be one of the basic military skills.

      Jimmy squatted, waving Flora down too; they were behind a quarter-turn in the passageway’s meander. Then he dug the small bag he’d purchased from Asher out of his pouch and unknotted the string. That was when it occurred to him that he had no idea how much of the stuff to use. His mouth twisted in exasperation. He’d been thinking about the wrong thing; how much he’d pay, rather than how much to use and how long it would last. Too late now.

      He decided to sneak up on the nodding guard and blow just a pinch into the man’s face. He’d keep on doing that until the guard collapsed. Jimmy gave a mental shrug. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do. After all, things had gone pretty well so far using trial and error.

      He turned to Flora and silently cautioned her to stay put. She nodded and made a shooing gesture. When he’d turned away Jimmy crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue, a gesture he’d never dream of making to her face; but he hated being told what to do. Especially when it was his idea to do it in the first place.

      Focus, he told himself and did so.

      He went forward swiftly but without hurry, moving on the balls of his bare feet like a cat. The guard was in the head-nodding phase of his waking doze: Jimmy took a pinch of the magician’s powder and blew it into his face just as he jerked it up again. With a loud, pig-like snort, the guard dropped like a sack of potatoes and the young thief barely caught the man’s polearm before it, too, crashed to the floor.

      Flora moved up beside him and the two of them stared at the fallen soldier in astonishment.

      ‘What did you use?’ Flora whispered.

      ‘Something I got from a magician,’ Jimmy told her in a more normal voice. He snatched the keys from the guard’s belt. ‘Something I’ve got to get more of. Useful stuff!’ He took the bag out of his tunic and handed it to her. ‘Here, you keep it. If someone comes, blow a pinch into his face and make sure you don’t breathe any of the powder yourself.’ She nodded and put the small bag inside her bodice. ‘Come on, let’s open that door.’

       The tiny cell was pitch-black, until they brought the torch in with them. It was colder than the corridor outside and smelled of mould and human waste.

      On the floor was a thin pallet of filthy straw and on the pallet, beneath a single ragged blanket, lay a man. His face was waxen pale, eyes and cheeks deeply sunken and his breathing rasped and gurgled as if each one was a struggle.

      Flora breathed an ‘Ooooh’ of sympathy and crouched by the man’s side. She took one of his hands in hers and immediately began to chafe it. ‘He’s so cold, Jimmy.’ She turned and looked up at him. ‘Go and get that guard’s cloak.’

      Jimmy raised his brows; he hadn’t expected her to start nursing anybody. But if this was the Prince he’d need to be a lot more active than he was if they were to get him out of here. He placed the torch in an iron bracket by the door and went to do as she’d asked.

      When he returned she said, ‘Let’s get some of that under him. This straw’s no protection at all from the floor.’

      Jimmy nodded, but he was dismayed to find the man still unconscious. How were they going to know they had the right prisoner if he couldn’t tell them? The young thief had only ever seen the Prince from a distance and he’d been healthier then, by far, than this man.

      He slipped an arm under the prisoner’s head and shoulders and heaved, almost sending him flying, for he weighed nothing at all, as if his body was made of sticks and air.

      ‘Well, if we have to carry him we can,’ he muttered.

      ‘But, Jimmy, he’s so ill,’ Flora said. She tucked the cloak around her patient’s emaciated body. Then she threw up her hands in despair. ‘Just listen to his breathing, it’s pneumonia, no doubt, and he’s got a fever.’

      ‘And we don’t know if he’s the Prince,’ Jimmy said grimly.

      ‘Who are you children?’ the man whispered, and he opened his fever-bright eyes upon them.

       Then he coughed, long and hard, curling into himself until the spasm passed, his face contorted with pain. When it was over he lay back with a careful sigh. His two would-be rescuers watched him with wincing sympathy that turned to solemn looks when he opened his eyes again.

      ‘Well?’

      ‘We’re Mockers,’ Jimmy said. ‘Who are you?’

      The man formed the word Mockers with his lips, but didn’t say it. Then he grinned, a truly terrible expression on his pale and wasted features. ‘I,’ he said breathlessly, carefully separating his words, ‘am Prince Erland of Krondor.’

      They could see the pride in the man, even under these sordid conditions.

      ‘Have you got anything to drink?’ Flora asked. ‘His lips are so dry.’

      Jimmy