Krondor: The Betrayal. Raymond E. Feist

teach that at Stardock.’

      ‘Can you do the same thing?’ asked Gorath. ‘It could prove useful.’

      ‘Really?’ asked Locklear dryly.

      ‘I don’t know,’ said Owyn. ‘When the spell struck me, something happened, a recognition of some sort. I will think on it, and maybe I can figure out how he did it.’

      ‘Well, figure out how while we’re moving, assuming you’re ready to go,’ said Locklear around a mouthful of bread. They quickly rummaged through the cache of supplies and found several dark grey-blue fur-lined cloaks. ‘These will serve us well,’ said Locklear, still warm from the fight, but knowing all too well how cold the nights were along the coast this time of the year. Locklear gathered up the maps and several messages, all claiming forces were in place for key attacks at various locations throughout the west. He placed those in a pouch and slung it over his shoulder.

      They left the barn and circled around the darkened farmhouse. The owner was either sleeping or dead, betrayed by his guests, but either way they did not wish to spend time finding out. They had three dangerous days before them and knew there were perils enough along the route to Krondor without stopping to look for them.

      Twice they had avoided assassins or bandits; they didn’t know which. Once they had lain in the mud in a gully next to a woodland path while a band of armed Quegans had hurried past. Now they stood behind the last line of trees before open farmland. Beyond they could see the City of Krondor.

      ‘Impressive,’ said Gorath in a neutral tone.

      ‘I’ve seen Armengar,’ said Locklear. ‘I am surprised to hear you call this impressive.’

      ‘It’s not the size of the place,’ said Gorath. ‘It’s the hive of humans within.’ For a moment he looked off into the distance. ‘You shortlived creatures have no sense of history or your place in this world,’ he said. ‘You breed like—’ He glanced over to see Locklear’s dark expression and said, ‘No matter. There are just a great deal of you at any one time in any one place, it seems, and this is more of you in such a small place.’ He shook his head. ‘For my people, such gatherings are alien.’

      ‘Yet you rallied at Sar-Sargoth,’ observed Locklear.

      ‘Yes we did,’ said Gorath. ‘To the sorrow of many of us.’

      Owyn said, ‘Do we just walk across this field to the road?’

      Locklear said, ‘No. Look over there.’ He pointed to a place where a small farm road intersected the King’s Highway. A half-dozen men stood idly by as if waiting for something. ‘Not exactly a place to hoist a few and talk of the day’s labours, is it?’

      ‘No,’ said Owyn. ‘Where do we go then?’

      ‘Follow me,’ said Locklear as he moved along the tree line, farther east. They reached a long gully, a naturally occurring watercourse that would be flooded when the thaw came to the mountains to the north and east, but which currently hosted only a small stream. ‘This runs to a place by the eastern gate, in the foulbourgh.’

      ‘Foulbourgh?’ asked Gorath.

      ‘The part of the city built outside the wall. There are ways to get in and out of the city if you know them. The sewers under the foulbourgh and city proper are not supposed to connect, so an enemy can’t use them to gain entrance.’

      ‘But they do,’ supplied Gorath.

      ‘Yes, in two places, and one of them is as dangerous as walking up to those men gathered back there and asking for directions to the Prince’s palace. That entrance is controlled by the Thieves’ Guild. But the other entrance – well, let’s say that besides a friend of mine, only a few others know of it.’

      ‘How is it you know of it?’ asked Gorath.

      ‘My friend and I used it once, a long time ago, to follow Arutha to Lorien.’

      Gorath nodded. ‘We have heard of that encounter. Murmandamus’s trap to kill the Lord of the West.’

      ‘That’s the one,’ said Locklear. ‘Now, it would be a good time to move silently.’

      They did as Locklear bid and moved through the gully, until they encountered a culvert, made of stones polished by the water over the years. They bent over and walked below the road, as the late-afternoon shadows lengthened. Finally, the culvert ducked under a small stone bridge that afforded them a hiding place. It was well shielded from prying eyes by stores stacked in crates on each side of the road waiting for transport. Bored workers slowly moved to load them.

      ‘We linger a bit, until it gets darker,’ said Locklear. ‘At the right time, we need to get up and blend in with some traffic heading along the road that runs beside this culvert.’ He went to the other side of the bridge and glanced upward, pulling his head back.

      Pointing where he had looked, he said, ‘Someone’s hanging around up there.’

      ‘What do we do?’ asked Gorath, obviously as out of his element as Locklear had been on the mountain trail.

      ‘We wait,’ said Locklear. ‘A patrol from the city watch passes along here about sundown, and they’ll order any armed men to move along. After dark it gets dangerous outside the wall, and the watch doesn’t like too many swords gathered in one place.’

      They sat under the bridge, in the puddles on either side of the stream, waiting in silence as the hours dragged by. Flies annoyed them, and only Gorath ignored their presence as Locklear and Owyn spent most of the time swatting them away.

      As sundown approached, Locklear heard the tread of boots upon the cobbles above. A few voices were raised, and Locklear said, ‘Now!’

      He moved quickly up the side of the bank just beyond the bridge, ducking behind some crates as a party of men dispersed under the watchful eye of the city guard. ‘They’ll come this way, back toward the palace,’ said Locklear. ‘We just duck in beside them, and even if we’re seen, it’s unlikely we’re going to be attacked with a dozen soldiers ready to start busting heads at the first sign of trouble.’ He pointed to Gorath. ‘But you’d better fix that hood. Most people here wouldn’t know an elf from a moredhel if you hung signs around your neck, but you never know. If Ruthia’s fickle, the first person we meet will be an old vet from the wars to the north.’ Ruthia was the Goddess of Luck.

      Gorath did as he was told and pulled his hood forward, hiding his features and when the soldiers walked down the road beside the stream, he followed Locklear and Owyn as they hurried to match pace with the soldiers.

      They walked from the northeasternmost corner of the city along its entire length to the southern gate, and when the city watch moved toward the palace entrance, Locklear pulled them aside.

      Owyn said, ‘Why don’t we just follow them in?’

      ‘Look,’ said Locklear. They looked where he pointed and saw a work crew gathered before the gate, with two teams of horses tied to a pulley. ‘It seems someone has sabotaged the gate,’ said Locklear.

      The watch commander shouted something down from the wall to the patrol leader, who saluted and turned his men around. ‘Come on, lads,’ he said, ‘we’re for the northern gate.’

      Locklear motioned for his companions to follow him and he led them through a back alley. ‘This way,’ he urged.

      He took them to what appeared to be the back entrance to a small inn, and opened the gate. Once through, he closed the gate and they stood in a tiny stabling yard, with a small shed off to one side. Looking to see if they were observed, Locklear pointed to the rear door of the inn. ‘If anyone finds us, we’re lost, looking for a meal and once we get inside the inn, head toward the front door; if anyone objects, we run like hell.’

      Gorath said, ‘Where are we?’

      ‘The back of an inn owned by people who would be less than pleased to discover we knew about this place, or what