The sheriff nodded and made a noncommittal grunt. "If you say so, squire."

James bid the sheriff good day and left. He took his time wandering the city, and tried to look inconspicuous as he kept an eye out for his missing agents. He paid a visit to the Customs Office at the dock and told the senior clerk that half a dozen constables would be arriving soon to lend a hand in inspecting cargo and pa.s.sengers. He made it clear he was less concerned with the cargo than he was the pa.s.sengers; smuggling, while a serious crime, was little more than a nuisance when compared to murder. The senior customs agent nodded absently, and James was certain that he would have to return in a day or two to see if the required changes had been made. Of all the things he had imagined as a boy-riches, power, and fame- he had not for an instant imagined the bureaucracy that came with such things.

James continued his tour of the city, poking around here and there, trying discreetly to uncover the whereabouts of his agents if they still lived. One or two of them might be lying low, he knew, but three missing and one murdered meant almost certainly most of them, if not all, were now dead. The implications of that possibility, that someone knew who they were, and by extension that they were working for the Prince's squire, was a possibility he chose not to dwell on.

As night approached, clouds rolled in off the Bitter Sea, and Krondor was quickly plunged into darkness. Feels more like fog than rain Feels more like fog than rain, James thought vaguely as he hurried back toward the palace. And a nasty fog at that. And a nasty fog at that.

If morning was his favorite time of the day, late afternoon and early evening were his least. The streets were crowded with tired citizens and visitors, people who had labored all day were now hurrying to shops to make purchases before closing time. Those inclined toward heavy drinking were already swaggering loudly down the thoroughfares, and the less savory populace of the city was now emerging as darkness fell.

Once he had numbered among those now venturing out of their daytime hideouts, the denizens of the night who preyed on the honest and hardworking, when they weren't preying upon one another. If he had a writ from the Nightmaster of the Mockers, none in that ragged brotherhood would trouble him, and even those who were not part of the Guild of Thieves left him alone, as the protection of the Mockers was not something to be brushed aside lightly.

Now he was the Prince's man, and while that provided him with a different kind of protection, he knew it shielded him not at all with those who once counted themselves his brethren. James had betrayed his oath to the Mockers in order to warn the Prince of the Nighthawks' attempt on his life, and in doing so he had committed treason against the Guild. James was vague on the details, but somehow Arutha had purchased or bartered for his life, and had taken him into the royal household. Despite that miracle, James was under no illusions. While still being on good terms with many individual Mockers, he knew the Guild itself had the death mark on him. As a means of avoiding conflict with the Prince, the Mockers ignored the mark, and viewed James with polite tolerance, no more. He still came and went in the sewers and upon the rooftops when need be, but should he be seen as a threat to the Mockers, they would exercise the death mark in an instant.

James grew tired of trying to navigate the press of people in the central city, and decided to take a shortcut through some backstreets to the palace. If he was quick, he would reach the palace in time to cadge a bite to eat from the kitchen staff, then get to the Knight-Marshal's office before Jonathan Means arrived. The absence of any agents in the city had James concerned more than he cared to let on and if Jonathan's snitches knew anything, he might be able to ferret it out using the sheriffs son.

James ducked between two buildings, through a s.p.a.ce too narrow to be rightly called an alley, and hurried to the next street over. Wending his way through the press of the crowd, he reached the other side of the street and entered a proper alley.

The buildings on both sides were two stories tall, so it was as if he had entered a dark creva.s.se. It was a long, filthy pa.s.sage, but one which would empty out on to a street only a block from the harbor. That would lead him on a quick route paralleling the waterfront, and take him to the harbor gate into the royal compound outside the palace.

He turned onto Chandler Row, the name for this section of the road that would take him back to the palace, when he suddenly knew he was being followed. Someone had come out of the alley behind him.

James knew better than to look back, but he itched to get a glimpse of his pursuer. He paused for a brief instant to glance into a shop window and heard his pursuer stop as well. In the distorted reflection of the gla.s.s, he couldn't make out who might be following him. The few people who pa.s.sed by were fisherfolk, net-menders, dock workers, and the other types one would expect to see near the docks, and James prayed he might catch sigh of a constable before he went too much farther.

James had just pa.s.sed his last opportunity to cut across to another street. He moved quickly, then suddenly slowed his pace, listening to whoever followed him.

There were two of them, he felt certain. There were enough gaps of relative silence as they moved along that he could pick out his pursuers from amongst those who pa.s.sed in the other direction.

James spied an ale-house, The Wounded Leopard. He broke into a jogging run, as if he was late meeting someone, and headed straight for the door.

Once inside, he blinked at the smoke-filled room. The chimney flue hadn't been cleaned in a while, and several of the patrons were smoking pipes or tabac cigars. James had never developed a taste for the habit and wondered how anyone did.

He hurried to the bar and pushed himself between two sailors, who both muttered, but moved to give him room. The one on James's right was a mole-faced fellow whose dark eyes hinted at danger, while the one on the left was a huge brute, easily as large as Knight-Marshal Gardan. James looked forward. "Ale, please!" he demanded of the barkeep.

The man had a face like a well-worn shoe, and the bags beneath his eyes made him look as if he was on the verge of sleeping on his feet. He nodded as he filled a stoneware mug and set it on the bar before James. James paid him and took a sip. It was too warm and too bitter, but he made a pretense of drinking it.

The door opened and James knew at least one of his pursuers was entering. He chanced a quick glimpse of two men, both dressed in common workers' garb, as they stood blinking in the smoky air, trying to find James.

"I did not," James said loudly to the large sailor who stood on his left.

The man turned and looked down at James and said, "What?" It was obvious he was drunk and ill tempered.

"I wasn't the one who said it," James replied.

"Said what?" asked the man, now interested.

"He said it." James pointed toward the door. "Him and his friend."

"Said what?" demanded the drunk, now irritated by a conversation he was having difficulty following.

"I didn't say you were the drunken son of a poxy Keshian wh.o.r.e."

The man grabbed James by the tunic and said, "What did you call me?"

"I didn't call you a drunken son of a poxy Keshian wh.o.r.e," insisted James. Pointing at the door, he said, "They did."

With a bellow the sailor was off, heading right at the two men who had been following James. James turned to the dangerous-looking man on his right and said, "You should have heard what they said about you."

The man just grinned and said, "If you want me to keep those two off your neck, squire, it'll cost you."

James sighed. "You know me?"

"I've been around, young Jimmy the Hand."

"How much?"

"For you, fifty golden sovereigns."

"For that much I'd want you to take them on a long journey. How much for ten minutes?"

"Ten."

"Done," said James as a shout and crash came from behind. Men were now moving away from the combatants and a chair went flying across the bar, smashing several bottles behind the barkeep.

Despite his sleepy appearance, the barman was spry enough to vault the bar with one hand, a truncheon clutched tightly in the other. "We'll have none of that here!" he shouted.

James dug ten gold coins from his purse and laid them on the bar. The slight man scooped them up and pulled out a dagger, turning to face whoever might come his way.

James didn't hesitate. He took his lead from the barkeep and vaulted the bar in the other direction. He hurried to a rear door and ducked into a storeroom. Years of living in the city provided James with a reliable map of Krondor in his head. He knew there would be no alley at the back, rather a yard with a gate opening onto the harborside.

He hurried through the storage area, past a door which opened to the kitchen, and through a door into the ale-house's rear yard. Twenty feet away a large double gate beckoned. James sprinted to it and lifted a large wooden bar from the two iron brackets that supported it, letting it drop near his feet. He stepped over it, pushed open the gate, and was met by a gloved fist which struck him hard across the jaw.

James's eyes rolled up into his head as he fell to the cobblestones.

FIVE - Secrets

James stirred.

His left temple throbbed-he must have struck the cobbles when he fell-as did the right side of his face. He tried to move and his head pounded. His wrists were bound behind him, and he was blindfolded.

A deep voice said, "Ah, the lad stirs."

Rough hands propped him upright on the floor and the deep voice asked, "A drink?"

James's voice sounded oddly high-pitched in his own ears as he said, "Yes, please."

Someone else in the room laughed, saying, "Polite one, ain't he?" and was shushed into silence.

The original speaker said, "Get him some water."

James waited a moment, until someone pressed a water cup against his lips. He sipped slowly, wetting his throat and buying seconds to gather his wits. The fog in James's head slowly lifted.

"Feeling better?" asked the deep voice.

James took a deep breath and said, "Yes, Walter. Though you could have gotten my attention in a gentler manner than smacking me in the head."

The deep voice chuckled. "I told you he'd tumble to this, you twits. Let's get the blindfold off him."

James blinked as his vision returned, and he saw three men standing over him in what could only be a bas.e.m.e.nt. Large barrels and crates were stacked against the windowless wall, and several large piles of goods were covered with dusty canvas. The man with the deep voice said, "How you been, Jimmy?"

"Fair enough, Walter, until about. . . what? An hour ago?"

Walter picked James up by the shoulders and turned him. He pulled off the ties that had restricted his hands and said, "Sorry about that, but you were getting difficult to keep up with."

"If you wanted to talk, Walter, there are other ways."

The man named Walter glanced at his companions. "Things aren't the way they once was, Jimmy. Lots of troubles in the city." Walter Blont was one of the Mockers' more effective bashers, trained by Ethan Graves. He was normally a man of even temper who went about his work in a journeyman fashion, without anger or spite. He had a plain round face, and a thatch of black hair now shot through with gray.

James took a moment and looked at Blont's companions. Both looked the part of Guild bashers: thick necks, heavy shoulders and legs like tree trunks. Either one would probably be able to break a man's skull with a bare fist. Neither man looked particularly bright, but James knew looks could be deceptive. Both men were unfamiliar to him, but he was certain that these were not the two men who were following him when he went into the ale-house. "Those weren't your men who were tailing me?"

"No," said Walter. "They were so fixed on following you, they didn't notice we we were following were following them them." He grinned, his crooked yellow teeth making him look even more menacing than when he didn't smile. "There are all sorts of new gangs in Krondor these days. Bashers and strong-arms arrive every week by ship and caravan. Someone's building up a serious army."

James sat down on a crate and said, "Start at the beginning, Walter."

Walter sat down on another crate and rubbed his chin, thinking. "Mostly, it started a few months ago. You heard of this bloke they call the Crawler?"

James nodded, then wished he hadn't as his head throbbed.

"Well, we've been running up against his men on and off for months now. At first they were just pesky. Then things got nasty."

Walter glanced at his companions. "We're about all that's left of the bashers. A few nights ago, someone broke into Mother's-"

"Someone got to Mother's without being stopped?" interrupted James in amazement.

"Took out each of the sentries as they came, hard and fast and no time for dawdling. Me and Josh and Henry here was out and about, and we got jumped in the sewers. We got the best of the four lads who tried to take us out." He waved to the man on his left. "Josh got a dagger sc.r.a.ped across his ribs for his troubles, and Henry had to sew up my shoulder with a sailmaker's needle and some thread. We found Mother's in ruins and have been lying low since then."

The man named Henry added, "It's a war out there, squire. The sewers are worse than any battlefield I've seen."

"Soldier?" asked James.

"Once," said Henry. "Long time back."

James nodded again, and winced. "I've got to stop doing that."

"Sorry about the bash, but you're such a slippery lad, it was the only way I knew to get you here," said Walter.

James grimaced. His head was going to hurt for a while. "You could have sent me a note."

"Hardly, and besides, we're not traveling too much by the usual routes, what with the cut-throats and a.s.sa.s.sins haunting the sewers."

"a.s.sa.s.sins?" asked James. "Nighthawks?"

"Maybe. Didn't see no black outfits like they was wearing before," said Walter, "but these boys was mean and didn't play at killing."

"They's very serious on the subject," said Henry.

Walter nodded. "We've dodged them because almost no one knows of this place. It was a bit of a gamble going up after you, but one of the beggar lads who's been smuggling us food saw you out and about today and said you were coming this way, so we took a chance. Time was you could have traveled the entire city and have no one catch sight of you."

James grinned ruefully, "I still can, but these days I have little reason to hide. I work for the Prince, remember?"

"That's to the heart of it, then. We need help."

"Who, the Mockers?"

"What's left of them," Walter said grimly.

"What's the Upright Man propose?" James knew that Walter would never presume to speak for the Mockers without the leader's permission. Walter must be his messenger of last resort.

The three men exchanged glances, and Walter said, "You haven't heard, then?"

"Heard what?"

"Rumor is the Upright Man is dead."

James sat back and let out a slow breath. "That puts paid to a lot of things, doesn't it?"

Walter shrugged. "You don't get where he did without making lots of enemies. Someone's hoisting a tankard in celebration if it's true, that's a fact."

"Who's running the Mockers?"

"No one," said Walter. "We're probably all that's left of the bashers. Maybe there are one or two other lads lying low like us. Most of them died when Mother's was. .h.i.t. They killed everyone, Jimmy. They killed the pickpockets and the beggars, the wh.o.r.es and the street boys."

"They murdered the street boys?" James said in disbelief.

"I think I saw young Limm and two or three others dodging down a culvert later that night but I can't be sure it was them. I didn't investigate because they was on the run from half a dozen men. Maybe they got away, but anyone who wasn't fast enough to dodge out of there, or lucky enough to have been somewhere else when they hit, was killed. Word spread fast and those that could got out of the city or went to ground."

Henry added, "These weren't dock-brawlers did this, squire, or even bashers like us. These were killers, who didn't even give you a moment to think or speak or ask what was what. They were cutting throats and dropping everyone-men, women, children-on one side of the building before those on the other side even knew there was a fight. It's been a fair couple of nights of hunt or be hunted in the sewers, I can tell you. We've been hiding here since then."

James glanced around. "This is the smugglers' hideout?"

"You've been here before?" asked Walter.

"A couple of times, when we were working with Trevor Hull and his gang. Back when Bas-Tyra was regent."