Shards of a Broken Crown. Raymond E. Feist

laughed. “My brother would agree; he used to work for the worst of the lot, Rupert Avery.”

      “That’s a name I have heard, young sir. My late master had cause to curse him more than once.”

      They got the trap moved and swung it back, letting it fall. The opening yawned at them like a black pit. Jimmy said, “I wish we had some light.”

      “You expect to travel in such gloom?” said Malar, a note of incredulity in his voice.

      “There is no light on the brightest day down there.” He found what he was looking for, the ladder down, and as he swung himself down onto the topmost rung, he said, “There are lights down there if one but knows where to look.”

      “If you know where to look,” Malar muttered under his breath.

      They carefully descended into the darkness.

      Dash winced, but not from the cold; rather he flinched at the sound of a lash striking a man down below. He, Gustaf, Talwin, and a few other men he had come to know were laboring atop the wall just to the north of Krondor’s main gate. Dash glanced over at Gustaf, who nodded, indicating everything was all right. Suddenly they both turned. A man screamed a few yards off as he lost his footing; in that brief instant, the man knew with dread certainty he was going to fall and no amount of will or prayer would keep him alive. His anguish and terror filled the afternoon air as he toppled sideways and fell to his death on the cobbles below. Gustaf flinched at the sound of the body striking the unyielding rock. They were repairing the battlements and the footing was treacherous, made doubly so by loose stones and constant fog in the mornings and evenings.

      “Keep your wits about you,” said Dash.

      “You don’t have to tell me that twice,” said Gustaf.

      Dash chanced a look over the wall and saw the usual confusion of the foulbourgh, soldiers milling around, street vendors, and the other human flotsam drawn into this eddy of the previous year’s war. Somewhere out there, he fervently wished, his brother Jimmy was getting the information needed to alert Owen Greylock that something strange was taking place in Krondor.

      Given the lack of resources, General Duko was doing an admirable job of restoring the city to its earlier status, at least from a military point of view. The merchants and other residents of Krondor would see years pass before the city came close to returning to its former prosperity. Too much damage had occurred for that to be anything but a distant dream. But from a soldier’s point of view, Krondor would be close to its previous level of defensibility in less than a year’s time, perhaps as quickly as nine or ten months.

      Dash wished mightily he could get loose of this work gang, scout around, and find out what was going on, but the reality of the situation was that any man who wasn’t an invader was a slave. Whatever Dash’s father had been thinking, it would have made more sense to have sent along one of the men who had traveled to Novindus with Erik von Darkmoor, someone who spoke the language and had a fair chance of passing for one of the men from the continent across the sea.

      Even if he got free, Dash knew his only hope was to get beyond the wall, blend into the populace there, and find his way to the East, where he was certain his father had other agents waiting for sight of either brother.

      Dash was certain his father had sent other agents into the city, and throughout the surrounding countryside. It would be unlike him not to. Besides, thought Dash as he helped hoist a large rock up to the battlements, the ghost of Duke Arutha’s father, Lord James, would haunt him if he didn’t. As Dash bruised knuckles on the harsh stone and began putting mortar into place, he thought that his grandfather’s ghost would be welcome about now. Certainly, if anyone could puzzle out what was happening in Krondor it would be the legendary Lord James.

      Jimmy cursed in the darkness as he bruised his shins against an unexpected stone. “Is the young gentleman certain he hasn’t lost his way?” came Malar’s voice out of the blackness.

      Jimmy said, “Keep quiet. It’s certain we’re not the only ones down here. And yes I know where we are,” he said. “We turn right and another dozen paces on the right should be the place we’re looking for.” As if to prove the point, he turned to the right and moved into a small passage. Malar kept both hands on the right wall as he awkwardly followed.

      After a few minutes they moved slowly through the gloom, then suddenly Jimmy said, “We’re here.”

      “Where is here, sir?” asked Malar.

      “One of the many hiding places for …” A sound of rustling, as if something was being moved, came from where Jimmy stood. Then Malar shielded his eyes as a small spark was struck, blindingly bright after the long time spent in the dark.

      The torch was dry and caught at once, and Jimmy said, “Let’s see what we have here.” He rummaged through the contents of the hiding place, a false stone in the wall at waist height.

      “How did you know where to look?” asked Malar.

      “My grandfather had reason to spend some time in the sewers.” He glanced at Malar. “He was a city employee.”

      “A sewer worker?”

      “At times,” said Jimmy. “Anyway, he told me that from whatever thieves’ entrance into the city, you move to the first intersection, then to the right, and about twelve paces to the right, a cache would be found. Seems the Mockers wanted to make sure that if they got chased down into the darkness, they could find light and some tools.” He waved at the cache. “Observe.” He patted each item as he named it. “A good length of rope. A large breaker bar. A water skin. A dagger, torches, or a lantern.”

      “A lantern with a shutter would prove safer,” said Malar.

      “True,” agreed Jimmy, “but as we don’t have one, we must settle for what is at hand. There may be other caches still intact, and perhaps we can find a lantern there.”

      He glanced around in the murk and said, “Gods!”

      Malar said, “What?” concern obvious in his tone.

      “Look at this mess.”

      “Sir, it’s a sewer,” replied Malar, irritation in his voice.

      “I know that. But look at the walls and the water.”

      Malar saw then what Jimmy meant. While expecting moss-covered stones and brackish water, he didn’t expect to see every surface covered in soot. He glanced at his own hands and said, “Sir, I think we must bathe once we get above, else we shall surely be noticed.”

      Jimmy glanced at his servant and said, “If I’ve scratched my chin as much as you, it is certain I look like a chimney sweep.”

      Malar said, “You’re filthy, sir.”

      Jimmy said, “Well, no one said this would be easy.”

      As he set off, he heard Malar mutter, “No one said it would be impossible, either.”

      Dash nodded and Gustaf jumped. He landed behind the big stone they were attempting to move, and ducked out of sight of the guards. He held a piece of broken crockery he had secreted in his shirt two days before and quickly sawed at a key rope in the net used to haul the stones.

      The rope net was a clever device that could be placed around the stone, fitted under the corners as men used levers to raise them. Once hoisted aloft, a quick pass of two ropes beneath the stone put on a second lifting net, and once above the intended destination, the two ropes were removed, and the stone lowered a few inches as the webbing loosened, dropping the stone. Dash knew a practiced crew of stone masons could do this with a tolerance of a mere fraction of an inch. With Dash’s crew, they were happy to get the stone within an inch of ideal tolerance. The only masons in Krondor were Duko’s engineers, and there was a severe language problem with most of the workers.

      Gustaf stepped around from behind the stone, nodding to Dash. “Haul away,” he shouted.

      Dash stepped back as two men readied