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 traveled 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 toward 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 gray 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 52
K R O N D O R : T H E A S S A S S I N S
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 toward 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 53
R A Y M O N D E . F E I S T
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
The more he had traveled 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 toward 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 gray 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 52
K R O N D O R : T H E A S S A S S I N S
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 toward 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 53
R A Y M O N D E . F E I S T
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
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