Raymond Feist - Shards of a Broken Crown

Suddenly light shone around the edges of the door and he could hear footfalls approaching. As bright as the light seemed through the cracks, when the door was opened, it blinded him. A voice from without said, “You awake?”

“Yes,” said Dash, finding his voice was harsh from dryness. “Any chance of water?”

“Let’s see if we let you live, first,” came the gruff answer.

A pair of hands reached in and yanked Dash to his feet, and he was pulled into a larger room. Shielding his eyes from the glare of the lantern, he glanced around the room. It was indeed the basement of a burned-out inn or hotel, and he had been locked in a storage closet. There were ample signs of life in the building, for crates and bales of goods were stacked around the room.

A half dozen men surrounded him, none with weapons evident. It was obvious they felt confident enough that they could keep him from escaping. As he blinked against the light from the lantern, he noticed that one man did hold a large billy, and he was sure he would use it if Dash made any sign of attempting to flee.

“What now?” said Dash.

“Come along,” said the man with a lumpy visage.

Dash said nothing and followed, walking behind two men, with two more guarding the rear. The last man stayed in the storage room, for what reason Dash could only imagine.

Dash was led down a long dark tunnel, one with a lantern at each end, featureless and damp. He listened, but only heard the sound of boot leather and nails on stone. If they were close to the city streets above, those streets were deserted.

The man in front pushed open a door, allowing the others to enter a very large room. It had a dozen torches guttering in sconces. A wooden table, not too badly charred, had been hauled down from the destroyed tavern above-ground and now served as the site of what Dash took to be some sort of court or tribunal.

At the head of the long table sat an old man. He looked deformed, or crippled, as he hunched over with left shoulder lower than the right, his left arm in a sling. Around his head he wore a scarf, covering his left eye. Below it, Dash saw the man’s face was scarred, badly burned. A young woman stood to his right. Dash looked at her closely. Under other circumstances she would have warranted a second glance, as she was tall, slender, and under the soot and mud, still attractive, with dark hair and eyes. But in these circumstances, what commanded Dash’s attention was her fashion – dressed like a man and armed to the teeth; he saw a sword, daggers in belt and boots, and he was certain she had more weapons secreted on her, such being the practice of thieves. She wore a dirty white shirt, now almost charcoal color, a leather vest, men’s riding breeches, and a red scarf tied around her head. Dark hair fell from under the scarf, and down her back.

With a surprisingly deep voice, she said, “You stand accused.”

Dash summoned as much confidence as he could manage in such circumstances and said, “No doubt.”

The lumpy-faced man said, “Before you’re convicted, have you anything to say in your defense?”

Dash shrugged. “Would it do any good?”

The old man chuckled and the man who had first apprehended Dash glanced his way. “Probably not,” he said, “but it won’t hurt.”

“May I first inquire of what crime I’m being accused?”

The lumpy-faced man again glanced at the old man, who waved a curt gesture of permission. “You stand accused of trespass. You were found someplace you were not given permission to pass.”

Dash blew out a long breath. “So that’s it, then. Mockers.”

The young woman glanced at the old man, who motioned with his good hand for her to come close. He whispered in her ear, and she said, “Why do you think us thieves, Puppy?”

“Because smugglers would have cut my throat and been on their way, and Duko’s guards would have had me under questioning up there.” He pointed upward. “You’ve separated me from my companions, which means you’re trying to find conflicts in our stories, and one of my companions brought you down on us; Reese seems more likely to be a thief than anything else I can imagine.” Glancing around the room, he said, “So this is what’s left of Mother’s?”

The old man said something, and the woman said, “What do you know of Mother’s? You’re not one of us.”

“My grandfather,” said Dash, knowing that at this point he had nothing to lose and everything to gain with the truth.

“What about him? Who is your grandfather?”

“Was,” said Dash. “My grandfather was Jimmy the Hand.”

Several people spoke at once, and the old man signaled for silence. The young woman leaned over and then repeated his words. “Your name?”

“Dashel Jamison. My father is Arutha, Duke of Krondor.”

Without waiting, the girl said, “So you’ve come spying for the King.”

Dash attempted a grin. “Well, the Prince, actually. But yes, I’m here to scout out Duko’s defenses, so that Patrick can retake Krondor.”

The old man waved a badly burned hand and spoke to the woman, who said, “Come closer, Puppy.”

Dash did as he was told and came to stand before the old man and the young woman. The old man’s one good eye studied Dash’s face for a long moment as the woman held a lantern close to it, so every detail could be seen.

Finally, the old man spoke loud enough for all to hear. “Leave us.” His voice sounded close to ruined, dry gravel being scraped, a strangled sound.

Everyone but the woman did, instantly and without hesitation, and the old man said, “Well, then. It is a small world, boy.”

Dash leaned over to study the burned features before him and he said, “Do I know you, sir?”

“No,” said the old man slowly, as if every word hurt. “But I know you by name and lineage, Dashel, son of Arutha.”

“Am I to know your name, sir?”

The woman glanced at the old man, but his one good eye stayed fastened upon Dash. “I’m your great-uncle, boy, that’s who I am. I’m the Upright Man.”

ARUTHA FROWNED.

Pug stood at the door studying the Duke of Krondor a moment, before he said softly, “May I speak with you a moment?”

Arutha glanced upward and waved him in. “Grandfather. Please.”

“You appear distracted,” said Pug, sitting in a chair across a large oak table Arutha used for work.

“I was.”

“Jimmy and Dash?”

Arutha nodded as he looked out a window at the warm spring afternoon. His eyes narrowed. They were deep sunk and had dark bags underneath, revealing the lack of sleep that had plagued him since sending his sons into harm’s way. There was grey in Arutha’s hair; Pug hadn’t seen so much just a month before.

Arutha looked at Pug and said, “You needed to see me?”

“We have a problem.”

Arutha nodded. “We have many. Which particular one are we discussing?”

“Patrick.”

Arutha stood and moved around the table to the door and glanced through. A pair of clerks outside were hunched over documents, reviewing reports and requests for supplies, lost in their work.

Arutha closed the door. He returned to his seat and said, “What do you propose?”

“I propose you send a message to the King.”

“And?” Arutha looked directly into the magician’s eyes.

“I think we need another commander in the West.”

Arutha sighed, and in that moment Pug could hear the fatigue, stress, worry, and doubt in the man, expressed in as eloquent a fashion as if an orator had spoken for an hour. Pug instantly knew the outcome of this discussion before Arutha said another word. Yet he allowed the Duke to continue. “History teaches us that we often do not get the best men for a particular job. It also teaches us that if the rest of us do ours, we’ll somehow manage.”