‘Cray!’ he shouted, summoning the captain of the guard’s secretary. When the man appeared he said, ‘I want every commander of every unit involved with this morning’s mission, from the sergeants up, in this office in one hour.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Cray said and sped off.
Del Garza sat back in the commander’s chair, enjoying the way Cray had leapt to obey, enjoying the privilege of taking over the commander’s office, enjoying the memory of the look on Leighton’s face when he had realized del Garza held the power in Krondor for the moment.
He turned his mind away from feeling any pleasure at the prospect of authority. How could he enjoy anything when his lord had been humiliated this morning? How could that wicked girl abandon her father so? And why? So that she would not have to partake of the honour of wedding the Duke du Bas-Tyra; one of the greatest, one of the noblest men in the Kingdom! How dare the little baggage treat his lord so?
Poor Prince Erland, to have such an uncaring child. Not that he was much better, for he, too, had defied his lord’s will. Well, he’d just have to suffer the fate to which his own daughter had condemned him. Del Garza considered: perhaps if the Prince was relocated to one of his draughtier dungeons, and word was leaked that he would remain there until his daughter returned …? He considered that a move to be made if Radburn didn’t return with the girl soon. If the girl had been coerced into leaving the city, it might convince her to return of her own volition, and if the Prince didn’t survive the ordeal, that was another problem that could be laid at Jocko’s feet when the Duke again graced the city.
Del Garza sighed. So much to be done, and he so much preferred routine to the unexpected. But, at least he knew the task at hand.
These … thieves, these nothings must be brought to heel, whipped into place like the dogs they were. That they should dare to steal Guy du Bas-Tyra’s rightful bride, interfering in matters they knew nothing about, and indeed should know nothing about …
With an effort del Garza calmed himself. He took deep breaths until his heart rate returned to normal. He shouldn’t waste this anger; he should harbour his fury until the men came, and then release it. Things were going to change around here; soon and forever. By the time Guy du Bas-Tyra returned from the south, Krondor would be a city in order and under firm control. Yes, he thought, in control.
He called for a parchment and pen and set his mind to the list of things that would have to be done, and first on that list was to round up as many of the Mockers as could be ferreted out of whatever dark warren hid them.
• Chapter Three • Aftermath (#ulink_169d64a5-ad72-54e3-acf8-a27fdabdae95)
The crossroads was crowded.
Hotfingers Flora was chatting and laughing with her friends while tossing saucy, flirtatious glances at every passing male when the wagon pulled up beside them. At first she didn’t give it much of a glance; the streets were busy with men on foot, porters with heavy loads, handcarts full of golden loaves of bread, cloth, boxes and bales, a sedan-chair – she cast an envious glance at the courtesan lolling within it – and any number of farmers’ wagons hauling in the city’s food.
When it stopped in front of her, she realized that this one wagon was different. It was a curious sight, with high sides and hoops over the top as though it was meant to be covered by a canvas tilt. But there were crossbars tied onto the hoops with rawhide thongs, making it look like a cage. It was driven by a pair of Bas-Tyran guards and followed by four more on foot, their hobnails a counterpoint to the clangour of iron-rimmed wheels on stone and their halberds swaying as they marched in step.
Some of her friends moved away cautiously – anything out of the ordinary was dangerous. But the majority of the girls watched with arms folded across their breasts and their eyes flicking toward the surrounding alleys, holding their ground despite their suspicion. After all, a lot of their business came from soldiers.
A sergeant descended from the wagon and approached the girls with the rolling swagger of a man who’d spent as much of his life on horseback as on foot. His corporal went to work lowering the tailgate and opening the cage door; the rest of the squad braced their polearms, the sharp hooks on the backs interlinked, a bare upright tent.
The sergeant chucked Flora under the chin and turned to grin at his men who also moved in, smiling. He smelled of sweat, leather and sour wine; she was used to that, but this man was ranker than most, and she wrinkled her nose a little. Flora tossed her head and with a slightly nervous smile asked, ‘Anything I can do for you, soldier?’
‘Yes,’ the sergeant said, leaning in close, ‘you can come with me, my little canker-blossom, you and all your friends. We’re having a party for you back at the keep.’ He took hold of her arm with a hard grip and a cruel, crook-toothed smile.
‘Well, there’s no need to be rough about it,’ Flora snapped, trying to pull away.
‘I suppose there isn’t,’ he agreed amiably. ‘But, ye see, I want to be.’
With that, he picked her up by her hair and the waist of her skirt and tossed her into the cage in a squawking cartwheel of limbs and cloth. Her knee hit something hard enough to bring tears to her eyes. Before she could get to her feet, her friends were thrown in on top of her, driving the breath out of her lungs with a force that left her struggling for air. One of her teeth cut the inside of her lip with a little stab of pain, and the iron-salt-copper taste of blood filled her mouth.
‘Wait!’ she cried after an instant, sucking back her breath as she went scrambling backward out of the writhing heap. ‘We haven’t done nothing! What are you doing?’
The cries of the others were shrill around her: protests, sobs, curses and wordless shrieks of rage. She hauled herself up by the bars of the wagon in time to see two of her friends scurry down an alley with their skirts gathered up, and took heart from the sight. Word would get back to the Upright Man and something would be done about it. Flora rattled the wooden bars of the cage as hard as she could, glaring.
‘You can’t just throw us in jail for nothing!’ she shouted.
The sergeant came up to her and smacked her fingers with a mailed fist; not hard enough to break anything, but more than hard enough to hurt. ‘Oh, yes we can,’ he said, with what might have been mistaken for good humour, if you weren’t watching his eyes.
Those eyes had something in them that made her shiver and remember what Jimmy had said about the risks of freelancing.
The sergeant slapped his gloved hands together; the metal rings on their backs clinked dully. ‘So says the acting governor. We can do anything we want to trash like you, and serves you right. Now shut up and settle down like a good, sensible girl or I’ll knock your teeth out.’
Flora sucked her wounded knuckles and did as she was told. The pain was distant, less real than the way her heart pounded with fear, and her throat tried to squeeze itself shut beneath a mouth gone parchment-dry.
By the time they arrived at the keep, the cage was full to bursting and Flora was pressed tightly against the bars – which was still better than being in the middle, since at least there was open air on one side. The wagon was filled with whores and beggars and a very few of the younger pickpockets who had been doing absolutely nothing illegal when they were taken. The soldiers had even rounded up a few people who were simply poor, or who’d happened to be standing next to the wrong whore. But she’d noticed that most of those in the cage with her were Mockers. And that frightened her. Clearly Jocko Radburn was not taking the Mockers’ adventure with the Princess Anita lightly.
The gates clashed shut behind them. More Bas-Tyra guardsmen hauled them out of the wagons to join a growing file of prisoners being herded to stairways that led downward. Boots and fists and the steel-shod butts of halberds and pikes thudded on flesh; almost all the cursing came from the guards, though.
Their prisoners were mostly silent, except for the occasional cry of pain.
Jimmy had slept for a whole day and night, waking at mid-morning on the second day after the Sea Swift’s departure. He stretched luxuriously, rose and put on clean clothes – or rather, the well-aired rags he’d left in this room the last time he’d slept here – and descended the stairs. Instinct made him walk close to the wall, where the boards were less likely to creak. On the whole he liked growing up, but there was no denying it made you heavier, and he was conscientious about learning to make skill compensate for the additional poundage.
‘If ye’re lookin’ for breakfast ye can look elsewhere,’ said his landlady. She was a toothless beldame who glared at him with rheumy eyes. ‘Ye know I’ve nothing for ye at this hour.’
‘I wouldn’t think of asking you to trouble yourself,’ Jimmy said gallantly. He smiled. ‘I needed the sleep more than the breakfast anyway.’
‘At your age?’ the old woman sneered.
‘It was a long trip this time,’ Jimmy said.
And indeed it was, into a whole other world in its way. But now it was time to get back to business. First he would stop at Mocker’s Rest and see what was happening. Then he could start the planning stages of something bigger than picking pockets.
He’d been apprenticed to Long Charlie for the last few months, though that apprenticeship had been suspended the night Jimmy had caught sight of Prince Arutha attempting to flee Jocko Radburn himself.
The Prince, his Huntmaster – Martin Longbow – and Amos Trask – the legendary Trenchard the Pirate – had come secretly into the city a few days earlier before Jimmy’s encounter with the Prince. They had tried to hide their presence but from Jimmy’s point of view they stood out like red bulls in a sheep fold. By the time Jimmy had chanced across Radburn pursuing Arutha, the Upright Man had put the word out to pick up these three newcomers.
Jimmy had known something was up between the smugglers and Mockers, something beyond their usual uneasy truce, for Trevor Hull’s men had come and gone in areas of the sewer that were clearly Mockers’ territory, but as he was only a boy, albeit a very talented one, he was not privy to the secret of the Princess’s escape from the keep.
Finding Arutha had changed that, and had plunged Jimmy into the heart of a conspiracy that had ended the night before with Anita, Arutha, and his companions successfully making their escape. He had not only become a conspirator but had become a companion to both Prince Arutha and Princess Anita while they awaited their opportunity for escape. He had played his part, earned royal thanks, and found within himself a sense of something larger than himself for the first time in his young life.
Such triumphs left Jimmy in no mood to return to apprenticeship, opening practice-locks while Long Charlie looked over his shoulder. Besides, he’d long since caught the knack of lock-picking and the samples he’d seen didn’t look as if they’d offer any challenge. Frankly, the training he was getting was boring and Jimmy knew in his heart that he was meant for more exciting things. Sometimes it seemed that Charlie was just giving him tedious work to keep Jimmy out of his hair. Even before the adventure with Arutha and Anita, Jimmy had made up his mind to request a new mentor. Life is too short to wait for what I’m entitled to, he thought.
One thing he should do today was steal some more respectable-looking clothes. The ones he was wearing smelled bad, even to himself.
Or I could buy some, just for a change, he thought. But first, a money-changer.
The changer worked out of a narrow shop in an alley, denoted by a pair of scales on a sign above the door; the paint was so faded that only a hint of gold peeped through the grime. Jimmy hopped over the trickle of filth down the centre of the alley, nodded to the basher who stood just outside, polishing the brickwork with his shoulder, and pushed through the door. The basher would find a reason to delay any citizen from entering the shop whenever a Mocker was inside.
Ference, the money-changer, looked up and said, ‘Ah, Jimmy! What can I do for you?’
Jimmy reached inside his tunic and pulled out his coin pouch, and with a quick flip of his wrist, rolled half a dozen coins on the counter. The others were safely hidden on top of a ceiling beam in his room.
‘Gold?’ Ference said, looking at the thumbnail-sized coins Jimmy shoved across the smooth wood of the table.
The money-changer was a middle-aged man with a thin, lined face and the sort of squint you got from fretting about your strongbox when you should be sleeping. He dressed with the sort of sombre respectability a prosperous storekeeper might affect.
‘Getting ambitious, are you, Jimmy lad?’
‘Honestly earned,’ Jimmy said, ‘for a change.’ And it was even true, for once.
