Krondor: The Assassins. Raymond E. Feist

The poor quarter was clearly a no man’s land, with many of the Mockers’ usual bolt-holes and accesses blocked off and sealed.

      Of the Mockers, James had seen nothing. That alone was not completely unusual. He wasn’t the only one adroit at travelling through the sewers and streets unnoticed. But there was something different about this night. There were others who used the sewers. Beggars who weren’t Mockers had places where they could sleep unmolested. Smugglers moved cargo short distances from secret landings built into the larger outflows into the harbour to basements farther in the city. With such activities came noises: small, unnoticed unless one was trained to recognize them for what they were, but usually they were there. Tonight everything was silent. Only the murmur of water, the scurrying of rats and the occasional rattle of distant machinery, waterwheels, pumps, and sluice gates echoed through the tunnels.

      Anyone in the sewers was lying low, James knew. And that meant trouble. Historically, in times of trouble, the Mockers would seal off sections of the sewers, especially near the poor quarter, barring the passages to Mockers’ Rest, the place called ‘Mother’s’ by members of the Guild of Thieves. Armed bashers would take up station and wait for the crisis to pass. Others not belonging to the guild would also hole up until the trouble passed. Outside those enclaves and safe areas, anyone in the tunnels was fair game. The last time James had remembered such a condition had been during the year following the end of the Riftwar, when Princess Anita had been injured and Arutha had declared martial law.

      The more he had travelled through the sewers below and the streets above, the more James was convinced something equally dire had occurred while he had been out of the city on the Prince’s business. James looked around to see that he was unwatched and moved to the rear of the alley.

      A pair of old wooden crates had been turned towards a brick wall to offer some shelter against the elements. Inside that crate lay a still form. A swarm of flies took off as James moved the crate slightly. Before he touched the man’s leg, James knew he wasn’t sleeping. Gingerly he turned over the still form of Old Edwin, a one-time sailor whose love of drink had cost him his livelihood, family, and any shred of dignity. But, James thought, even a gutter-rat like Edwin deserved better than having his throat cut like a calf at slaughter.

      The thick, nearly-dried blood told James he had been murdered earlier, probably around dawn the day before. He was certain that his other missing contacts had met a similar fate. Either whoever was behind the troubles in the city was killing indiscriminately – and James’s informants had been exceedingly unfortunate – or someone was methodically murdering off James’s agents in Krondor. Logic dictated the latter as the most likely explanation.

      James stood and looked skyward. The night was fading, as a grey light from the east heralded the dawn’s approach. There was only one place left he might find answers without risking confronting the Mockers.

      James knew that some agreement between the Prince and Mockers had been reached years before when he had joined Arutha’s service, but he never knew the details. An understanding of sorts had arisen between James and the Mockers. He stayed out of their way and they avoided him. He came and went as he pleased in the sewers and across the roofs of the city when he needed, and they looked the other way. But at no time had he any illusion that he would be warmly welcomed should he attempt to return to Mockers’ Rest. You were either a Mocker or you weren’t, he knew, and for nearly fourteen years he had not been a Mocker.

      James put aside concerns about braving a visit to Mother’s and turned towards the one other place he might find some news.

      James returned to the sewer and made his way quickly to a spot below a particular inn. It sat on the border between the poorest quarter of the city and a slightly more respectable district, one inhabited by workmen and their families. A rank covering of slime hid a secret release, and once it was tripped, James felt a slight grinding as a section of stone swung aside.

      The ‘stone’ was made of plaster over heavy canvas, covering a narrow entryway to a short tunnel. Once inside the tunnel, with the secret door closed behind him, James opened the shutters of the lantern. He was almost certain he knew of every trap along the short passage, but as the key word was ‘almost’ he took great caution as he traversed the tunnel.

      At the far end he found a thick oaken door, on the other side of which he knew rose a short flight of stairs leading to a cellar below an inn. He inspected the lock and when he was satisfied nothing had changed, he picked it adroitly. When it clicked open, he pushed it gingerly aside against the possibility of a new trap on the other side of the door. Nothing happened and he quickly mounted the stairs.

      At the top of the stairs, he entered the dark cellar, thick with barrels and sacks. He moved through the maze of stores and climbed the wooden steps up to the main floor of the building, opening into a pantry, behind the kitchen. He opened the door.

      A young woman’s scream split the air and a moment later a crossbow bolt flew through the space James had occupied the instant before. The young man rolled on the floor as the bolt splintered the wooden door and James came to his feet with his hands held palm out as he said, ‘Easy, Lucas! It’s me!’

      The innkeeper, a former soldier in his youth, was halfway around the kitchen, the crossbow set aside as he was drawing his sword. He had grabbed the crossbow and fired through the door, across the kitchen, upon hearing the scream. He hesitated a moment, then returned his sword to its scabbard as he continued moving towards James.

      He circled around a butcher’s block. ‘You idiot!’ he hissed, as if afraid to raise his voice. ‘You trying to get yourself killed?’

      ‘Honestly, no,’ said James as he stood up.

      ‘Dressed like that, sneaking at my cellar door, how’d I know it was you? You should have sent word you were coming that way, or waited an hour and come in the front door like an honest man.’

      ‘Well, I am an honest man,’ said James, moving from the kitchen, past the bar and into the empty common room. He glanced around, then sat down in a chair. ‘More or less.’

      Lucas gave him a half-smile. ‘More than some. What brings you crawling around like a cat in the gutter?’

      James glanced over at the young girl who had followed him and Lucas into the commons. She had regained her composure as the intruder was revealed to be a friend of the innkeeper. ‘Sorry to startle you.’

      She took a breath and said, ‘Well, you did a good job of it.’ She stood upright, and her high colour from the fright put her fair complexion in contrast to her dark hair. She appeared to be in her late teens or early twenties.

      James asked, ‘The new barmaid?’

      ‘My daughter, Talia.’

      James sat back. ‘Lucas, you don’t have a daughter.’

      The proprietor of The Rainbow Parrot sat down opposite James and said, ‘Run to the kitchen and see nothing’s burning, Talia.’

      ‘Yes, father,’ she said, leaving.

      ‘I have a daughter,’ Lucas said to James. ‘When her mother died I sent her to live with my brother on his farm near Tannerbrook.’

      James smiled. ‘Didn’t want her to grow up in this place?’

      Lucas sighed. ‘No. It gets rough in here.’

      Feigning innocence, James said, ‘Why, Lucas. I never noticed.’

      Pointing an accusatory finger in his direction, Lucas said, ‘Far less savoury characters than you have graced that chair, Jimmy the Hand.’

      James held up his hands as if surrendering. ‘I’ll concede as much.’ He glanced towards the kitchen door as if somehow seeing through it. ‘But she doesn’t sound like any farm girl I’ve heard before, Lucas.’

      Lucas sat back, ran his bony hand through his grey-shot hair. His angular face showed irritation at having to explain. ‘She studied with a sisterhood in a nearby abbey for more hours than she milked cows. She can read, write, and do sums. She’s a smart lass.’