A Crown Imperilled

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Jim kept close to the wall.

The city watch moved down the street in noisy fashion, six men, two abreast, marching as if on parade. It would have looked comical, except that it was the dead of night, hours before dawn, and the city was now officially under martial law. That martial law had been declared mere hours after Jim had slipped out of the palace seemed more than a coincidence.

Jim waited. As he expected, a few minutes after the passing of the watch, a pair of keen-eyed men came peering into every shadow, doorway, and window, moving as quietly as cats. Sir William Alcorn was sparing no effort in locating the ailing Duke’s grandson, apparently.

After leaving Bill the Butcher’s establishment, James had intended to check on one of his safe houses, a small rented room over a dry goods store where he had secreted a fair amount of gold, several different documents and disguises, and a sufficient number of weapons to ensure his ability to defend himself.

He had almost walked into a trap.

His ‘bump of trouble’ had tripped when he started down the street where the shop lay, when he noticed a man lingering at the far corner. Had he approached from that direction he would certainly have been sighted. Depending on how many agents Sir William had nearby he might have been able to escape. Or he might have ended up in chains. Or dead.

He walked into a tavern at the corner, convinced he hadn’t been seen, and sat there nursing a pint of ale, spilling most of it on the floor when no one was looking. The straw covering the stones was changed almost every day, and this early it was relatively fresh. It could soak up a lot of ale.

He waited until to make sure he hadn’t been seen, then ducked out the back. He had wandered the docks, moving in a random fashion, until he was completely certain no one was following him, then headed for what he considered to be his safest safe house on the island. He was especially cautious approaching this one and was relieved to see no hint of anyone watching it.

It was a shack at the end of a long beach just to the east of the southernmost wharf in the city. It was called Old Wharf, for it was the oldest one left standing, and had the benefit of having been neglected to the point of being useless. Jim had seen a couple of recommendations it be torn down for one civil improvement or another, but had managed to misdirect those memoranda so that no one in authority could ever act on them.

There was no reason for keeping the wharf in place, save one: it provided a safe exit out of the city for Jim. There was an ancient culvert, used by fishermen in ages past, where refuse from catches had been dumped before being taken into market. Flotsam, kelp, thrown-away fish, and the occasional corpse had been dumped into the culvert for decades. The high tide would come in and wash it clean twice a day. As the small town became a big city, the wharf proved less and less effective until it had been entirely abandoned more than a century before.

But that culvert still was washed clean of debris every time the high tide went out, and Jim had more than once used it as a way out of the walled city of Rillanon. He reached the shack after sundown, while there was enough twilight to see anyone within a half-mile, and he knew no one had followed him.

The shack was one of a half-dozen or so abandoned buildings from times long past when net mending and other fishing-related activities had taken place on the beach. Fishermen had graduated from the shallow-draught, two- or three-man craft used still on other parts of the island, to larger, deeper-draught boats that now required anchorage in the harbour. So the shacks went unused.

Except by Jim.

The third one from the end, unguarded even by a door, presented a gaping maw of an opening and one empty window. Jim stepped inside and fell to his knees, scooping sand up and throwing it to the side. It took ten minutes of digging but at the end he had a mound of sand in one corner of the shack and a trap door revealed in the other.

He opened it and dropped in. Feeling around in the darkness he found a small table upon which was placed a torch dipped in dried resin and a flint-and-steel igniter. He tripped the igniter and soon the torch illuminated the room.

All was as he had left it and he placed the torch in a iron holder on the wall, went to a rack of clothing and began picking out what he needed.

An hour later a scruffy-looking sailor with a large duffle-bag emerged from the shack and hurried towards the old wharf, knowing that he would get through it only minutes before the tide filled it. He didn’t mind swimming through the channel surge, but did not wish to explain how he was drenched when he reached his next meeting place.

He got back into the city proper with only soaking trousers below the calf and they would quickly dry out as he walked. He resisted the urge to scratch at the false beard he now sported and the theatre paint that had been applied to his face to make him look swarthier than usual. The accent he adopted was that of a Kingdom sailor from Pointer’s Head, most of whom had ancient Keshian ancestry and thus a tendency to be darker than most in the Kingdom. Unless Sir William’s agents could anticipate his disguise, they would still be searching for a man younger, fairer of skin, and without facial hair.

Jim entered a dock side tavern and glanced around the room. In the corner sat a young man, waiting patently. Jim sat and if the young man was surprised at his appearance, he masked it well.

‘Karrick,’ said Jim.

The young man nodded and didn’t use his name. ‘Quite the … look you have there.’

‘I’m outbound on a ship in an hour.’

‘I won’t ask where.’

‘Good,’ said Jim. They both knew that Karrick couldn’t be forced to reveal what he didn’t know.

Karrick was young, no more than twenty-one years of age, but he was perhaps Jim’s most trusted agent in Rillanon. He was also the man Jim had got closest to Bill the Butcher. The organization of the thieves in Rillanon was different to that in Krondor, but there was still a need for communication between Bill’s Council and various gang leaders throughout the island.

Karrick had been working for Bill since he was a boy of ten. But he had been working for Jim since he was a boy of nine.

He looked enough like Jim to have been his son, and to be honest Jim had a little trouble remembering exactly where he had been nine months before Karrick’s birth, yet he doubted it. As Jim Dasher he had bedded his share of whores in Krondor, but James Jamison rarely frequented the ale-houses and brothels in Rillanon. Still rarely was not never and there was a resemblance. Karrick wore his hair down to his shoulders, but he was clean shaven, and had blue eyes rather than Jim’s brown. Yet there was a smile and tilt of head that looked very familiar, so occasionally Jim wondered.

Most of those in the thieves’ trade had little memory of their childhood. Either they had been orphans or they chose not to remember fathers who beat them, mothers who were drinking or taking drugs to endure being touched by loathsome men. Urchin gangs roamed the streets here as they did in every other big city, for despite being the Jewelled City of the Kingdom, at heart it was grimy, dark, and dangerous, including all the unpleasant realities of a city: sewers, slaughterhouses, rendering shacks, fish wharfs, and as assorted a collection of seedy taverns and filthy brothels as you’d find north of Kesh. So despite the magnificent splendour of the palace and every other building on the hills being faced with brilliant stonework, it was still just a city. And whatever Karrick remembered from his childhood he never shared with JIm.

All Jim knew is that while Karrick had lived his entire life within sight of those magnificent edifices atop the hill, he barely noticed them. He was too concerned with staying alive. He said, ‘It’s been, what? Five years?’

‘Six.’

‘I was surprised when Anne from the palace contacted me and told me to be here.’ Karrick leaned back, one well-muscled arm draped over the back of his chair. A serving man came over and took an order for two jacks of ale.

When he was gone, Jim said, ‘I have always tried to give you what I could, to supplement what you’ve had to learn on your own, but contact between us was never a good idea.’

‘It was a good year,’ said Karrick, and Jim knew exactly what he was talking about. In their first year together, Karrick had been a promising nine-year-old with a toughness, resiliency, and deep rooted sense of survival far beyond his years. He had been running a gang near the docks, and boys four, five, even six years older than him had taken his orders.

Unbeknownst to the boy, two men had taken notice of the enterprising boy: Jim Dasher of Krondor and Bill Cutter of Rillanon. Jim had got to him first.

For that first year, Jim had spent time with Karrick ensuring that he was better trained in hand-to-hand fighting than the other boys, teaching him the sword, when no other lad had that skill. Locks, how to set up a lookout, a thousand subtle but critical knacks that set apart a thief like Jim or his great-grandfather Jimmy the Hand from any common street thug.

From Jim’s point of view, Karrick was as close to Jimmy the Hand as any man living. He was faster than Jim was, even if only by a little. He was better at climbing the walls and roofs of the city, though Jim reserved the thought that had he been Karrick’s age, he would have kept pace with him. He knew everything Jim could teach him about locks and traps, and to pick one and avoid the other. And also he had taught him to read and write, skills sorely lacking in the other urchins of Rillanon.

In the end, that year had cemented a bond that Jim had continued even after Bill the Butcher took Karrick in. Jim never came to Rillanon without spending time with him, and always ensured Karrick had gold beyond what he could steal for himself, and the means to hide from Bill and flee the island safely should the need arise.

Then, six years before, Karrick had been promoted to a position with the Council itself. Their last meeting had been the night Karrick told Jim of that elevation. Jim had said, with some true sadness, that there could be no further contact between them unless the situation was dire. As Bill’s chosen agent, Karrick would be under close scrutiny and it was too risky for them to remain in touch. So, a code word and a venue was selected for any future meeting, and each went their separate way.

Karrick said, ‘So, I imagine this means that grave crisis you always spoke about has arrived?’

Jim smiled. ‘You mean beyond the war with Kesh and the attempt to incapacitate the Duke of Rillanon, and Sir William Alcorn’s apparent attempt to seize control of the Kingdom?’

Karrick smiled, and again to Jim it was like looking in a mirror. ‘Well, there is that.’

Jim nodded. ‘It’s time for you to take over the Council.’

Karrick said nothing for a while. Then he said, ‘That will be difficult.’

‘If it was easy, I wouldn’t need you.’

Karrick’s eyebrow lifted slightly, and he smiled again. ‘Need me?’ He leaned forward, ‘All these years … since we met, I’ve wondered at what point you would finally decide that I was ready to serve.’

‘You’ve been ready to serve for at least six years, Karrick.’ Jim fell silent as the ale appeared and the server walked away. ‘I just didn’t need your particular gifts until now. More to the point, the Kingdom didn’t need them.’

Karrick nodded, and there was a strange hint of sadness in his expression. ‘Have you ever lived a lie so long that it became true?’

Jim looked around the room, not liking where this conversation might lead. Seeing no one but the barman and one other customer, a elderly drunk, he felt his anxiety lessen.

Karrick chuckled. ‘No, Jim, I’m not betraying you to Bill.’ He looked at the disguised noble. ‘You’re the closest thing to a father I ever had, even though I barely saw you for more than a week for the first five years after we met. As I said, that first year, that was a good year.’

Jim said nothing.

Karrick said, ‘Have you ever wondered …’

Jim knew exactly what was being asked. ‘Yes, I have. Now, speaking of sons, I’ve arranged for Bill to think his boy James is taking over the Mockers in exchange for helping me with a few things during the war.’

Karrick could barely contain himself. ‘He believes you?’

‘He believes because he wants to believe, and frankly, I was convincing.’ Jim looked around the inn and said, ‘I’m honestly going to be done with all this when this war is over. I am not exactly sure where I’ll end up, assuming it’s not at the end of a rope, but when this is all over, I am letting go.’

‘The Mockers?’

‘Everything.’ He leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘I’ve already dispatched messages to Krondor. Bill’s boy is to apprentice with the Nightmaster. He is supposed to assume control of the Mockers, become the next Upright Man, when I step down.’

‘I know James well,’ said Karrick. ‘He’s as cunning as a sewer rat and ambitious: which is why his father wants him on the other side of the Kingdom. But he lacks the skill to manage things. And he has a temper.’

‘That’s useful.’

‘It should keep him from forming quick alliances in the Mockers,’ said Karrick.

‘It’s immaterial,’ said Jim. ‘He’ll be dead sooner or later. Bill will get a message of condolence saying his boy died during a job gone terribly wrong, slain by the Crushers. That’s assuming, of course, that Bill’s still alive.’

Karrick said, ‘I gather that means I’m supposed to decide when it’s time to remove Bill?’

‘How many know that Bill is the Council?’

‘His three sons, myself, two others. After that it’s much the same as the Mockers. A message comes through the local gang chief from the Council, delivered by a street boy.’

‘And you control the street boys, still?’

Karrick nodded.

‘One son to Krondor. Arrange with an army sergeant you trust to have one other son arrested and sympathize with Bill when he dies trying to escape. The last son, leave until after Bill’s death and keep close to him, make yourself indispensable until it’s time for you to take his place. The two others you decide if they will serve you or need replacing.’

‘They’ll serve,’ said Karrick. ‘And I know which son to arrest and which to commiserate with … for a while.’

‘When Bill’s son James is on his way to Krondor and after I’m gone begin these tasks. Ensure that Anne always knows how to reach you.’

Jim was ready to leave and said, ‘Our relationship cuts both ways, Karrick. Not in issues of blood, no matter what they may or may not be, but of this: as close as I may be to being a father to you, so you are to being a son to me. It is not ideal; I have no such illusions, but you’ve been loyal and reliable, as much as any father would wish to a son to be. When all is said and done, if it is within my means, I shall deliver you to higher standing than a king among thieves.’

Karrick laughed. ‘You see me standing in the palace with starched shirt and brocade coat? Dancing with the ladies?’

Jim shared the laugh. ‘What’s the matter? You can’t dance?’

Karrick kept chuckling and said, ‘All will be done as you’ve instructed. I will wait to hear from you.’

Jim thought for a moment. Then he said, ‘If you don’t hear from me within the month, send word after this thing is done to the Black Ram in Ran. I believe that is Bill’s usual place to exchange messages. We might as well continue to use his couriers.’

‘Bill alive or dead, that’s the easiest way,’ agreed Karrick. ‘So that means you’re bound to Ran?’

‘Sooner or later,’ said Jim as he rose.

‘I’ll finish my drink,’ said the young thief.

‘Fare well,’

‘Fare well all of us,’ replied Karrick.

Then Jim was out of the door.

Jim made his way to the docks where a ship was ready to depart for Ran. He had already had his name added to the roster of sailors. Now he purchased a small bottle of evil-smelling distilled spirits and poured it over his head before reaching the royal docks.

He feigned being intoxicated as he hurried along the long pier jutting out into the harbour. He knew that Sir William would have agents watching every ship leaving the harbour, but assumed he might be less vigilant on the Navy Pier, given that it was already crawling with military, any of whom would be quick to seize a suspicious-looking character like Jim in time of war.

But there was one ship on the pier which was not a warship but a transport vessel, and it had a civilian crew. And when he reached the gangway, two bored-looking Royal Marines were flanking the plank up to the ship.

‘Papers,’ one demanded as he got there.

Then from above, the bosun’s voice cut through the air like a knife. ‘Jax! You drunken whore’s son! I should leave you there and make you swim after the ship! Get your lazy arse up here!’

Jim successfully looked unfocused and unsure. He fumbled in his shirt as if he was trying to find his papers, and the bosun roared, ‘Now, damn your eyes!’

The marine shook his head slightly and said, ‘Go on, then.’

Jim went up the gangway and received an ungentle slap to the back of the head as he passed the bosun, another of the few agents left in the military he could trust. Jim would no doubt get punishment, and the rest of the crew knew better than to question the presence of a newcomer if the bosun knew him: they’d assumed he’d sailed with that man before and was getting a second chance, a story that Jim would relay if asked.

He hurried below, stowed his gear, then headed back on deck. He might reek of spirits, but he was not drunk, so he quickly made his way to the topgallants and made ready to lower sail.

Jim felt an unusual sinking in his stomach and realized that never before in his life had he felt this sense of foreboding. And he felt an unfamiliar pang; he was betraying Bill the Butcher. Usually such treachery would hardly give him a moment’s pause, but for some reason this time he felt bad about condemning the man to death. He realized that despite what he had said to Bill, he really did want to get out of this business and what he had said to Karrick was the truth. He would quit and find a suitable replacement for both Jim Dasher of Krondor and James Jamison, agent of the King.

For a brief moment, Jim could hang in the yards, his feet supported only by footropes, as he waited for the command to lower sail. He reflected on his decision and knew it was the right one; he was spent. He would die for the Crown, but he would not waste away for it.

He wondered how his counterparts, Kaseem and especially Franciezka, were doing and hoped they were experiencing better fortune than he was at the moment.

Lady Franciezka Sorboz crouched low behind a decorative hedge, one hand resting on a lethal dagger. The blade was coated with a venom that would paralyse whoever was cut within seconds, preventing an alarm being raised. For an instant she was struck by the incongruity of sneaking into the very palace in which she often resided, the defences for which she had helped to fashion. She particularly loved this garden, behind the guest quarters now occupied by Lord John Worthington. She remembered lovely summer nights like this with the air spiced by the scent of jasmine and gardenia.

Franciezka wore tight-fitting travel togs and boots designed to permit quick movement, and minimize snagging on branches or the iron spikes embedded into the wall she had just climbed.

She was desperate to break the stalemate within the palace. The King and Queen were locked up in their apartments, sumptuous surroundings for certain, but no less a prison. All communication with the household staff and the government were being conducted through Lord John Worthington’s most trusted lackeys.

Franciezka was reduced to a handful of agents she could trust, but none were placed close enough to the royal family to help. Her entire organization had been designed to look outward, at Kesh and the Isles and the Eastern Kingdoms, not inward. Kesh might have their secret police, but it was not under Kaseem Hazara-Khan’s purview. Jim used his Mockers in Krondor and his contacts with other criminal elements to gather information, but given the politics and history of the Kingdom of the Isles, a revolt by the nobility was more likely than any popular uprising, and the last one they had endured was over three hundred years ago.

Roldem’s population was far more homogenous than either rival nation. The Isles and Kesh were like conquered city-states and regions forged into a single empire or kingdom by centuries of occupation and absorption. But Yabon was different to Rillanon, and the Isalani people were nothing like the Truebloods of the Overn Deep. Roldem had always been one people.

Given Roldem’s history, a coup d’etat was unthinkable. And even under Lord John’s offices, it didn’t feel like a coup, at least not yet.

But something was underway that was creating disastrous consequences for the Kingdom of Roldem. Trade was at a standstill and the only goods produced on the island were still in abundance, but they were quickly being consumed or bought up by speculators. She reckoned they were less than three months from a scarcity that would have the population demanding an end to the Keshian blockade. A month after that would come food riots in the streets of the capital.

She moved along the wall, alert to any passing patrols or guards, but found this portion of the palace unguarded. She wasn’t entirely sure why, as the rest of the complex was ringed with guards.

A loyal servant had mentioned that something was planned for Lord John’s private quarters, as instructions had been given that two hours after sunset his quarters were to be sealed off and he was not to be disturbed until he personally opened the doors. No visitors were scheduled but he had requested that food and wine be provided. Even his son and most trusted aides were being ordered out of his quarters.

His determination for privacy played to her advantage, because he had ordered the guards who might patrol outside his quarters out of this garden. They were now patrolling on the street beyond the wall she had clambered over, their usual routine disrupted and their vigilance compromised. Not that they were ever that vigilant, thought Franciezka as she moved through shadows; the palace guards not detailed to protect the royal family were soldiers of little value used mostly for ceremony. She crossed an open expanse of lawn to reach the wall of the palace, ducking into the shadow of an elm tree that would cut the afternoon’s glare through the terrace windows of Lord John Worthington’s quarters.

She was determined to discover what it was Lord John was up to. Inching her way to the balcony outside Lord John’s private quarters, she listened.

She could hear men’s voices inside, though the words were indistinct. She peered up over the edge of the balcony, between stone risers and then ducked back down. Lord John’s quarters had large glass doors opening on to a broad low balcony, and in the heat of summer he had left them open. But getting up over the railing would prove difficult without being seen.

Glancing up again, she saw that the two men in the room with Lord John had their backs to her, so she moved to the closest point to the wall where the balcony began, just out of Lord John’s line of vision, and nimbly leapt up to the rail, then down, landing silently. Her knees hurt slightly and she realized she was starting to feel her age.

She crouched down, back against the wall, knowing that on either side of the doors were matching framed floor-to-ceiling windows with sashed curtains. Pulling a small folded hood out of her belt, she quickly donned it. Black knit with two eye holes, it would not reflect the light coming though the glass. She inched her way along the wall until she was just next to the edge of the glass surrounding the doors and peered in. Her eyes widened and only the most rigorous training over the years kept her from exclaiming.

There were three John Worthingtons in the room!

They looked identical: could they be triplets? One was clearly Lord John, unmistakable in the forest-green jacket he preferred to wear most days. The other Lord John was dressed like a Keshian noble of the Trueblood, bare-chested and shaven headed, with a circlet of gold ending with Keshian royal falcons upon his brow, arm bands of gold, and cross-gartered sandals. He wore a heavy linen skirt, girdled with a wide crocodile hide belt fastened with a gold claps.

The third Lord John was dressed like a noble of the Kingdom of the Isles, and it was he who was speaking.

‘This is unwise. We should not be gathered together in one place.’

‘Brothers,’ answered the Lord John she knew. ‘There is no risk. Roldem is at peace, albeit a fragile one, so this is the safest place to meet. Kesh is crawling with guards, legionaries, nobles armed to the teeth ready to kill one another, and that palace has few places to be unobserved. The Kingdom is still infected with those damned agents of Lord James’s grandson.’

The Isles version of Lord John said, ‘I’ve had most of them out, those that I couldn’t turn. His skill in picking agents with strong minds … our magic was not as effective as we thought it might be. Good resources were wasted when we had to start cutting throats.’

The one Franciezka thought of as the ‘real’ Lord John said, ‘I had the same experience here, but the Lady Franciezka’s agents were not as numerous. Roldem has grown complacent over the centuries.’

Franciezka bristled, but kept listening.

‘Still, the two elder princes are out to sea somewhere, Grandprey is in the mountains with a large part of the army still loyal to the Crown, and the Princess is missing, almost certainly off the island by now. So, our plans for Roldem must be placed in abeyance for the time being. How fare things in Kesh?’

The Keshian answered. ‘Their intelligence is crushed and Hazara-Khan hides in the northern desert among his kin. The desert people have always been loyal but they are far from the capital. There is nothing to keep us from moving forward with our plans in the City of Kesh.’

‘Good,’ said the real Lord John. ‘Let us inaugurate the second stage of our plan when you return. What of the Isles?’

‘It is most well suited for our next phase. There is no announced heir, but many potential claimants. We have displaced their armies, so the King’s Armies of the West cannot respond to any calls for aid from our valley.’

Franciezka frowned. Our valley? she wondered.

‘Good, then see King Gregory on his way as soon as you return.’

Franciezka’s heart pounded. These three men, brothers, whatever they were, planned on murdering the King of the Isles!

The Keshian asked, ‘What of the elves? I can order our forces outside of Ylith to E’bar if needs be.’

‘Those damned elves are impossible,’ said the ‘real’ Lord John.

The Isles John said, ‘Every agent we’ve dispatched, from either Isles or Kesh has failed to report back. We assume them dead at the hands of those Star Elves.’

The real John said, ‘All we can do is what we’ve done before; throw what’s left of the demon legion at them and keep them busy until it’s too late for them to take a hand.’

‘We’d best depart,’ said the Keshian. ‘I hold no belief we shall be able to dispatch the Emperor: too many attempts over the years makes it problematic; but we can certainly keep Kesh so occupied with this war that they will be ineffective in challenging us.’

‘Then to you, brother,’ said the real John, ‘comes the task of beginning our great work.’

‘I lack certain advantages,’ said the Isles John. ‘If I had killed Duke James, there would be too much scrutiny. I’ve isolated his grandson and rendered him impotent, but he’s still out there somewhere and not to be underestimated. I lack the convenience of a son to marry to a princess so my motives are somewhat questioned. Still, they are Kingdom simpletons and think merely of personal gain; they see me positioning myself as the next Duke of Rillanon, and that answers all their questions as to my actions.’

‘Raw ambition is so easy for these humans to understand,’ said the real John. ‘The boy I charmed into thinking I was his father fits the role admirably. And those I control will rally to support his marriage to the Princess, if we can find her. I almost regret the need to kill him when the time comes.’

‘Regret?’ asked the Keshian.

‘I said almost,’ replied Lord John. ‘Now, let us be about our tasks. Our master grows impatient and his wrath is not to be courted. Let us serve and serve quickly.’

Suddenly the two visiting versions of Lord John vanished from sight leaving only a faint grey smoke hanging in the air. Franciezka pulled her head away from the window and without hesitation leapt from the balcony and sprinted for the outside wall. She had no idea how she was going to find Jim and get word to him, but someone was about to try to kill his king and he might be the only man in the Isles who could save him.

With almost effortless ease, as the stress of the moment made her heart pound and her limbs feel light, she leapt onto a trellis and from there to the branch of a tree near the wall, then on top of the wall, avoiding the iron spikes, and over the wall to the cobbles on the other side.

Within seconds the Lady Franciezka Sorboz was lost in the darkness.