Raymond Feist - Silverthorn

‘This is Trig the Fuller, Highness,’ answered the senior watchman. ‘He claims someone broke into his room and stole from him. He says he was awakened by the sounds of struggle on his roof.’

Trig interrupted. ‘They were fighting over my head, over my … very … head …’ His voice trailed off as he realized who he was speaking to. ‘… Your Highness,’ he finished, suddenly embarrassed.

The heavy-browed watchman threw him a stern look. ‘He says he heard some sort of scream and, like a turtle, pulled his head back in from the window.’

Trig nodded vigorously. ‘Like someone was doing murder, doing bloody murder, Your Highness. It was horrible.’ The beefy watchman visited Trig with an elbow to the ribs at the interruption.

The young watchman came from the side alley. ‘This was lying atop some rubbish on the street the other side of the house, Bert.’ He held out the assassin’s sword. ‘There was some blood on the grip, but none on the blade. There’s also a small pool of blood in the alley, but no body, anywhere.’

Arutha motioned for Gardan to take the sword. The young watchman, observing the guards and the obvious position of command assumed by the newcomers, handed up the sword, then doffed his own cap.

Arutha received the sword from Gardan, saw nothing significant in it, and returned it to the watchman. ‘Turn your guards around, Gardan. It is late and there’s little sleep left this night.’

‘But what of the theft?’ cried the fuller, shaken loose from his silence. ‘It was my savings, my life savings! I’m ruined! What shall I do?’

The Prince turned his horse and came alongside the watchmen. To Trig he said, ‘I offer my sympathies, good fuller, but rest assured the watch will do their utmost to retrieve your goods.’

‘Now,’ said Bert to Trig, ‘I suggest you turn in for what’s left of the night, sir. In the morning you may enter a complaint with the duty sergeant of the watch. He’ll want a description of what was taken.’

‘What was taken? Gold, man, that’s what they took! My hoard, my entire hoard!’

‘Gold, is it? Then,’ said Bert, with the voice of experience, ‘I suggest you turn in and tomorrow begin to rebuild your treasure, for as sure as there’s fog in Krondor, you’ll not see one coin again. But do not be too disconsolate, good sir. You are a man of means, and gold quickly accrues to those of your station, resources, and enterprise.’

Arutha stifled a laugh, for despite the man’s personal tragedy, he stood a comic figure in his nightshirt of linen, his nightcap tipping forward to almost touch his nose. ‘Good fuller, I will make amends.’ He pulled his dagger from his belt and handed it down to Bert the watchman. ‘This weapon bears my family crest. The only others like it are worn by my brothers, the King and the Duke of Crydee. Return it to the palace tomorrow and a bag of gold will be placed in its stead. I’ll have no unhappy fullers in Krondor on the day of my homecoming. Now I bid you all good night.’ Arutha spurred his horse and led his companions towards the palace.

When Arutha and his guards had vanished into the gloom, Bert turned to Trig. ‘Well then, sir, there’s a happy end to it,’ he said, passing the Prince’s dagger over to the fuller. ‘And you may take some added pleasure in knowing you are one of the few of common birth who may claim to have spoken with the Prince of Krondor, albeit under somewhat strange and difficult circumstances.’ To his men he said, ‘Let us back to our rounds. There’ll be more than this one little bit of fun in Krondor on a night like this.’ He signalled for his men to follow and led them off into the white murk.

Trig stood alone. After a moment his expression brightened and he shouted up to his wife and any others who still looked out of their windows, ‘I’ve spoken to the Prince! I, Trig the Fuller!’ Feeling emotions somewhat akin to elation, the fuller trudged back into the warmth of his home, clutching Arutha’s dagger.

Jimmy made his way through the narrowest of tunnels. The passage was part of the maze of sewers and other underground constructions common to that part of the city, and every foot of those underground passages was controlled by the Mockers. Jimmy passed a tofsman – one who made his living gathering up whatever of use could be found in the sewers. He used a stick to halt a jumble of debris carried along on the waters of the sewer. The floating mass was called a tof, that which tofleets, in a corruption of language. He picked at it, looking for a coin or anything else of value. He was in fact a sentry. Jimmy signalled to him, ducked under a low-hanging timber, apparently a fallen brace in an abandoned cellar, and entered a large hall carved out among the tunnels. Here was the heart of the guild of thieves, Mockers’ Rest.

Jimmy retrieved his rapier from the weapons locker. He sought out a quiet corner in which to sit, for he felt troubled by the conflict he faced. By rights he should own up to his unauthorized pilfering of the fuller’s house, split the gold, and take whatever punishment the Nightmaster meted out. By tomorrow afternoon the guild would know the fuller had been boosted, anyway. Once it was clear that no freebooting thief was at work, suspicion would fall upon Jimmy and the others known to occasionally go for a night’s foray without leave. Any punishment forthcoming then would be doubly harsh for his not having confessed now. Still, Jimmy couldn’t consider only his own interests, since he knew the assassin’s target had been none other than the Prince of Krondor himself. And Jimmy had spent enough time with Arutha when the Mockers had hidden the Prince and Princess Anita from du Bas-Tyra’s men to have developed a liking for the Prince. Arutha had given Jimmy the very rapier the boy thief wore at his side. No, Jimmy couldn’t ignore the assassin’s presence, but he was not clear where his best course lay.

After long moments of quiet consideration, Jimmy decided. He would first attempt to get warning to the Prince, then pass along the information about the assassin to Alvarny the Quick, the Daymaster. Alvarny was a friend and allowed Jimmy a little more latitude than Gaspar daVey, the Nightmaster. Alvarny would make no mention to the Upright Man of Jimmy’s tardiness in reporting, if the boy didn’t take too long to come forth. Which meant Jimmy would have to reach Arutha quickly, then return at once to speak with the Daymaster – before sundown tomorrow at the latest. Any later than that, and Jimmy would be compromised beyond even Alvarny’s ability to look the other way. Alvarny might be a generous man, now that he was in his twilight, but he was still a Mocker. Disloyalty to the guild was something he would not permit.

‘Jimmy!’

Jimmy looked up and saw Golden Dase approaching. While young, the dashing thief was already experienced in parting rich older women from their wealth. He relied more on his blond good looks and charm than on stealth. Dase made a display of the valuable clothing he wore. ‘What think you?’

Jimmy nodded in approval. ‘Taken to robbing tailors?’

Golden aimed a playful, halfhearted cuff at Jimmy, who ducked easily, then sat next to the boy. ‘No, you misbegotten son of an alley cat, I have not. My current “benefactor” is the widow of the famous Masterbrewer Fallon.’ Jimmy had heard of the man; his ales and beers had been so highly prized they had even graced the table of the late Prince Erland. ‘And given her late husband’s and now her far-reaching business concerns, she has received an invitation to the reception.’

‘Reception?’ Jimmy knew Golden had some tidbit of gossip he wished to unfold in his own good time.

‘Ah,’ said Golden, ‘did I fail to mention the fact of a wedding?’