Jimmy the Hand (3 page)

‘What
about the whores?’ Flora asked, frowning.

‘For
Banath’s sake, Flora,’ Jimmy said, invoking the god of
thieves, ‘free food and a safe place to sleep! We’re
finally getting to see something for all those shares we pay out. Why
work when we can laze about like—’ he’d been about
to say ‘royalty’, but changed it to, ‘—Bas-Tyra’s
bully-boys. Besides, it will give you a chance to think about your
future.’

With a shy
smile, she nodded, pleased at the attention. ‘Oh, for . . .’

The Nightwarden
took to the table again and said in exasperation: ‘If you’ve
got another flop, leave now! Those that don’t can stay here.’
He stepped down again and this time left the hall.

‘Well,’
Jimmy said, rising, ‘I’m off to bed.’

He glanced at
the rapier in his hand and decided after all to leave it in the
weapons locker. A boy his age and station carrying a first-class
sword down the street in what would soon be broad daylight was bound
to receive unwelcome attention. The purchase price would be ten
years’ wages for a tailor or potmaker, much less a common
labourer or child of the streets. He could scarcely assure the watch
that, no, it wasn’t stolen, a visiting prince had given it to
him . . .

‘What
about you, Hotfingers?’ he said. ‘Do you need an escort?’

‘Go on!’
she said laughing. ‘An escort!’ She swatted him on the
rump. ‘Nah, I’m staying here to take advantage of the
Upright Man’s generosity.’

Jimmy looked
around nervously; that was a somewhat overbold statement, but no one
had noticed.

‘Good
night then,’ he said, and gave her a little salute with the
hilt of the sword.

Flora broke into
giggles at the sight. ‘Escort!’ he heard her say as he
walked off.

Jimmy watched
carefully.

Despite the
early hour, the streets were rapidly filling with people. The scrawny
street-sweepers with their brooms and pans were just clearing off;
for a moment Jimmy thought it was a job should be paid for by the
Crown. A bit of a tax on each business and all the streets would be
fit for travellers rather than just some of the better boulevards in
the merchants’ and wealthy quarters where those who resided
paid out of their own pockets.

If I was Duke
of Krondor,
he thought idly,
that’s how I’d do it.

The sweepers
were being replaced by cooks and their assistants returning from the
farmers’ markets with fresh produce, fruit and poultry.
Butchers’ apprentices hurried along carrying quarters of beef
or sides of pork. Those tradespeople who didn’t live over their
businesses were off to open their shops in the next hour, and those
whose work-day started a bit later were looking for their bite to eat
at the start of the day.

Wood smoke
curled from chimneys and he could smell porridge cooking, sometimes a
fish or sausage frying—more odours to add their bit to the
ghosts of ancient cabbage that haunted the city’s poorer
quarters. Wooden shoes clattered on the cobbles, bare feet slapped,
hooves racketed.

The black and
gold of Bas-Tyra wasn’t as visible as it had been on other
mornings lately, and Jimmy smirked to himself at the thought that
they were still nursing their bruises. But the few members of the old
Constable’s company seemed on edge, as if trouble were coming
and they didn’t know which side of it they’d land. He
passed a gate where four soldiers still wearing the Prince’s
tabards were huddled, talking with heads down rather than watching
who passed through. Something was up and word was spreading. Jimmy
knew every man on the docks the night before had been Bas-Tyra
regulars or secret police.

For a moment he
toyed with the idea of wandering over to the temporary barracks used
by Bas-Tyra’s soldiers and taking a look at the damage, but
that notion was dispelled by a rare instant of common sense. Given
how touchy the guards were no doubt feeling today, any number of poor
boys were liable to be spending a few days in the city dungeon. But
in his case it was liable to be more than a few days and a lot more
painful.

Suddenly a
sergeant of the Bas-Tyra guard appeared and the Prince’s four
sentries snapped lively and took their posts on either side of the
gate. Jimmy watched from the sheltered vantage point of a deep
doorway opposite the gate. The sergeant’s mood was dark and
dangerous and when he left, the four soldiers of the Prince were
studying every face that passed, looking for something. As he was
about to slip away, Jimmy saw them halt one ragged fellow and start
questioning him. Jimmy knew the fellow: he was not a true Mocker, but
one of the threadbare poor who flitted around the edges of crime from
time to time. He was a labourer named Wilkins, and Jimmy had seen him
unloading smugglers’ cargo for Trevor Hull twice in the last
year. One guard put the strong arm on him and marched him away.

Jimmy sank back
into the doorway. If they were taking in know-nothings like Wilkins,
then he was certain to be nabbed if he showed his face. Although, if
he could get into the dungeons he might be able to do something for
Princess Anita’s father.

If I could
rescue Prince Erland, Anita would never forget me.

And it might be
very profitable. He’d gained two hundred in gold for helping
Prince Arutha and he’d only needed to guide him to safety. How
much more could he make if it took actual effort?

The young thief
stared into space for a moment, his fingers reaching out as if of
their own volition to snatch up a bun from a passing vendor’s
tray as she edged close to the doorway to avoid a passing horse-drawn
wagon. His hand moved in a swift unhurried arc that put the pastry
beneath the tail of his jacket without any flash to attract the eye
as he faded back into the shelter of the doorway. The stout woman
continued on, ignorant of the theft, still calling her wares. Jimmy
bit into the warm bun, considering possibilities and savouring the
cinnamon and honey.

He’d need
to speak to Mockers who’d been in the dungeon. That would lead
him to the beggars, then. Thieves never made it out of the dungeons
alive and bashers, who might be let go if they were thought to be
innocent drunks who’d just got out of control, were people he
tried to avoid. Especially when planning something the Upright Man
might not endorse.

Well,
definitely wouldn’t endorse,
he admitted to himself.
Definitely would reject with... oh... cold fury would be a good
description.

Laughing Jack’s
admonition to stay out of sight and out of action wafted through his
mind to be dismissed. Being cautious never won the prize, at least
not in his experience, and for thirteen or so he’d had a great
deal of experience.

His jaws cracked
in a massive yawn, so Jimmy decided to get some sleep before he did
any more planning. He waited until the three remaining guards had
their attention distracted away from him, then darted out of the
shadow of the doorway. He turned a corner and headed off to one of
his places, one he’d actually paid for. It was nothing more
than a cupboard with a tiny window and just enough space for a pallet
and a rickety table with a cheap candle stand. The old couple who
owned the house believed that he was a caravan master’s
apprentice, which explained his frequent and sometimes lengthy
absences. They charged only a few silvers a month and rarely climbed
as high as his tiny room, providing him with both security and
privacy. Even so, he only left a few rags of clothing there. Or, at
least, that was all he left in his room so far. Up in the garret he’d
found a few hiding places but had yet to use one. Now, with his gold
heavy on his hip Jimmy resolved to try one out. He’d given some
thought to a proper safe house, and decided for the time being
poverty was his best cover; none of his fellow Mockers or any of the
rare independent thieves who wandered into Krondor would suspect gold
would be hidden in a hovel such as this.

He woke the old
man up when he knocked and was greeted with a resentful grunt—since
selling their businesses years before, the old couple slept in, often
as late as seven or eight of the clock, and didn’t relish
having to admit Jimmy at dawn.

The old fellow
locked the door behind the boy and headed back to his room, leaving
Jimmy alone in the dim and dusty front hall. Jimmy started up the
stairs, noting that the place smelled worse than it had the last time
he was here. This was his only semi-decent roost. If it kept
deteriorating like this he’d have to move.

‘Listen to
me,’ he mumbled wearily, ‘I’m starting to sound
respectable myself.’

Baron Jose del
Garza, acting governor of Krondor in the Duke’s absence and
now, temporarily, the head of the Duke du Bas-Tyra’s secret
police, sat behind the desk of the commander of the palace guard,
seething and staring at the narrow, pointed window in the stonework
across from him. The room smelled of ink, musty parchment, cheap
wine, tallow candles and old sweat.

Had it been his
pleasure, he’d have been just about anywhere else in the
Kingdom than in Krondor this morning. He’d have been far
happier leading the charge against the Keshian raiders troubling the
Southern Marches alongside the Duke of Bas-Tyra, rather than having
to oversee the business before him today.

Del Garza was a
man of modest ambitions. He served at the Duke’s pleasure, and
it had been Duke Guy’s wish that he administer the city in his
absence, seeing that bills were paid, taxes collected, crimes were
punished, and overseeing the usual details of running the
principality while the Prince languished in his private quarters. It
would be easy to think of the Prince’s confinement as being
under arrest, but no guards were stationed outside his quarters; the
man’s poor health prevented any chance of his escaping the
city, and whatever else he was, the Prince was obedient to his
nephew, the King. When Guy had arrived in the city with the Writ of
Viceroy signed by the King, Prince Erland had graciously stepped
aside.

Now del Garza
sat silently cursing the day he had left his native Rodez to seek
service in Bas-Tyra. Duke Guy was a hard man, but a fair one, but
since coming to Krondor, del Garza had been forced to suffer the
companionship of Jocko Radburn. That murderous maniac had the face of
a simple peasant, but the heart of a rabid wolf. And his inability to
do something as simple as keep a sixteen-year-old girl under lock and
key was now threatening to turn del Garza’s life upside down.

Radburn had left
del Garza in command of the secret police, and had commandeered one
of the Duke’s ships, the
Royal Griffin,
and set off in
hot pursuit less than an hour after the girl and her companions had
fled the city. Now del Garza was faced with cleaning up this mess
and, more importantly, positioning himself so that if Radburn failed
to recover the escaped Princess, as little blame attached itself to
him as possible.

A knock came and
he answered, ‘Yes?’

A guard opened
the door and looked through. ‘He’s coming, sir.’

Del Garza
nodded, keeping his face calm as the door closed again. He had
appropriated this office for a very specific interview, following
which he would address his subordinates. But first, very much first,
he would speak to the captain of the
Paragon,
a blockade ship
that had just happened to drift off her position at a critical moment
this morning.

He heard a man’s
voice approaching, clearly raised in anger. There were no answering
voices as the one who shouted came closer. A knock sounded on the
closed iron-strapped wooden door and del Garza contemplated it for a
short interval. There had been a momentary silence after the knock,
but it was soon broken again by the protesting, expostulating voice.

‘Come,’
the acting governor said quietly.

The door opened
instantly and del Garza met the eye of his subordinate as he entered
the office. He saw both amusement and exasperation there and not a
little disgust. For an instant del Garza wondered if the
thinly-veiled contempt was directed at him, but at the last, the man
glanced to the side, and del Garza realized the scorn was directed at
the man who followed close behind.

Though not a
small man, the secret police operative was thrust aside by a very
large, very self-important one wearing the salt-stained coat of a sea
captain.

‘What is
the meaning of this?’ the captain demanded. ‘I must
protest this treatment! I am a gentleman, sir, and I was brought here
under protest! I was given a missive summoning me to a meeting with
the acting governor, but no sooner did we make dock than this—’
he sneered at the fellow he had shoved, ‘—
brigand
tells me that I am under arrest and seized my sword. My sword, sir!
What possible excuse could there be for such an action?’

He stopped and
stared at the man behind the desk. ‘And
who
, if I may
ask, are you, sir?’

Del Garza stared
at him while the other two guards took up position behind the
Captain. Captain Alan Leighton was indeed a gentleman, the third son
of a very minor nobleman whose family were willing to pay to get him
out of the ancestral home; in other words, someone of less real use
than the average dock-walloper or ditch-digger. And he would have
been dismissed from either position for incompetence within a week.
His commission and his ship had been bought for him, not earned,
while better men had to wait. The Baron knew his type and despised
him. He was a man who was just important enough to be a nuisance, and
not important enough to have any real value.

‘I
am
the Governor,’ he said, his voice as flat and cold as a window
in midwinter.

The captain
shifted his feet and looked at him uncertainly. Del Garza was an
ordinary enough looking man; rat-faced, and his dress was of simple
if expensive weave.