Krondor_ The Assassins Part 33

"Did you find him?" asked James.

'Yes, squire. He's got that little shop at the end of the jetty, the sign of an anchor and two crossed oars. He's a chandler."

"Did you talk to him?"

"No," said Jonathan. "I watched from a distance to make sure the shop was open, then came here."

"Good," said James. "Get back to your regular duties. And make sure you thank your father for finding out that this man was back in the city."

Jonathan left and James considered what to do next. Lacking a better choice, he picked the bold one and made his way to the shop Jonathan had described.

As he reached the shop with the sign of the s.h.i.+p's anchor over two crossed oars, James's mind raced as he debated what to say. He hesitated for a moment, then opened the wooden door, causing a tiny bell to ring.

A man of middle years, but with gray hair bordering on white, turned as James entered. He was heavy-set, but not fat. His brow furrowed a little and he said, "I'm about to close, young sir. Can your business wait until morning?"

James said, "Is your name Donald?"

The man nodded, and he leaned upon the counter. Behind him sat items common to any chandler's shop in the Kingdom: barrels of nails, tools, coils of rope, anchors, and other fittings.

"I'm Squire James, of the Prince's court," he said, pausing to see if there was any reaction.

The man displayed none. Finally he said, "I know the royal purchaser, lad. Now, if he didn't send you, tell me why you're here so I can go home and get off my feet."

James smiled. The man wasn't remotely daunted by his mention of the Prince, as James had suspected he wouldn't be. "Actually, my business is more in the area of law enforcement, these days."

Again, no reaction.

"Your name turned up on a list recently."

There was a slight whitening of the man's knuckles upon the counter, but otherwise he was immobile and his expression remained unchanged. "What list?" he asked evenly, his light blue eyes fixed upon James.

"A list of people murdered in the city recently."

"The killings? I heard of them. Well, as you can see, I'm not dead. I don't know how my name got on such a list."

"Where have you been these last five weeks?" asked James.

The man forced a smile. "Visiting family up the coast. I left word with several people. I'm surprised no one told the constables I was away for a month."

"I'm surprised, too," said James. "Perhaps you could tell me who you told?"

The man shrugged. "A couple of lads at the local tavern. I mentioned it to several s.h.i.+ps' purchasers. And I told Mark the sailmaker next door the night before I left."

James nodded. He was certain the sailmaker had been told at the last minute, and that the other men he claimed he had also told would turn out to be difficult to name. "Well, then," said the squire, "when you turned up missing among all the murders going on, it was not unreasonable to make the a.s.sumption that you were among the dead."

"I suppose so," said the chandler. "Have you stopped the killings?"

James said, "For the most part. There's still some b.l.o.o.d.y work down in the sewers, thieves and the like, you know how that goes."

"Not a place for honest men," said Donald. "But what about above ground?"

"Things are as they were," said James, "before the murders, more or less."

The man said, That's good to know. Now, if you have no more questions, squire, I must get home."

James nodded. He said, "We'll talk again, I'm sure."

The man followed James to the door, and as it closed James turned to catch a final glimpse of the man's face. James considered. He was almost certain he had just spoken to the Upright Man.

The Mockers would return, and there would be a continuation of the struggle with the Crawler and his men, but with the Nighthawks deeply wounded, the mayhem in Krondor would subside for a while.

James walked away. One thing Arutha had taught him: from chaos comes opportunity, and while the Upright Man was rebuilding his criminal empire, James stood a good chance of getting an agent or two into the Mockers. With what he knew of the structure of the Guild of Thieves, he was certain he could coach the proper candidate to pa.s.s scrutiny. The problem was finding the proper candidate.

But that was a worry for another time, thought the former thief. He had many things to occupy him right now, and Arutha had requested that he return to the palace after seeing Ethan and the others on their way.

There was, for example, the matter of ferreting out information about the Crawler. James was becoming certain the Crawler was not in Krondor, but rather was operating his ring from some other location, perhaps in Queg or Kesh, maybe the Free Cities. He put Kesh at the top of his list, as there seemed to be an inordinately high number of Kes.h.i.+ans working for the Crawler.

There was also the problem of untangling the many strands that seemed to bind the Crawler and the Nighthawks. James had come to concur with Arutha's opinion that the Nighthawks had an agenda all their own. The gathering in the desert certainly looked more like a small army than a tiny band of skilled killers.

And the magic. Who was behind that? James wondered.

He reached the palace dock and was saluted by two guards as he pa.s.sed back through the gate. So many mysteries and other problems. But, he thought, he was alive, young, and still had his wits. It might take years, but eventually he would come to understand who stood behind all the trials visited upon the Kingdom.

The creature had once been a living man, a magician of significant power. It sat now upon a throne of carved stone, deep in a labyrinth of caves. The pounding of surf in the distance could be felt more than heard, for the secret temple rested near the sea, deep below the water level. The cave's rocks constantly sweated moisture, and the air was always damp.

Before the throne rested a huge carved hand, fas.h.i.+oned from rock, which held a giant black pear. Also before the throne stood a magician, dressed as a common man of trade. The creature on the throne turned to face the magician. The hawk-nosed man felt no fear being in the presence of the undead sorcerer-a "liche", man-like thing man-like thing, in the old tongue. The liche's servants were equally malevolent, the animated skeletons of his Death Guards. The magician had no fear of the guards, either.

"You failed," said the liche to the magician. Its voice was as dry as the cave was wet.

Sidi turned, and waved his finger. "No, the Nighthawks failed. We always succeed. People died, the Prince in Krondor searches under every rock for who is responsible, and vainly looks for patterns where none exist."

"But is there enough disruption?"

The slender magician shrugged. "Is there ever enough? Besides, too much and the Ishapians might change their plans. As it's taken me twenty years to get to this point, I'd rather not have things change unexpectedly and have to wait another ten or twenty years to try again. The G.o.ds may have lifetimes to wait, but we do not."

The creature on the throne laughed, a scratchy, parched sound. The skin on its face was stretched tightly across its skull, and its wrists were no more than bones with tatters of skin hanging from them as it pointed at the magician. "You may not have lifetimes, but I do."

Sidi leaned forward and said, "Be not overly proud of your petty necromancy, Savan. It didn't keep your brother alive when Arutha's pet spy tossed him to the demon."

"I thought giving Neman oversight of the Nighthawks would keep him focused. He was not ready to attempt the summoning. He was mad."

"You all go a little mad when you come back from the dead; it can't be avoided, it seems," said Sidi. "That's why I kept you locked up here for a few years when you returned from the grave, remember?" He waved his hand in an expansive gesture. "Madness has its uses," he said with a nod of his head. "In fact, at times it's extremely useful." He turned with eyes wide and the liche chuckled. "What?" asked Sidi.

"You're as mad as I," said the undead magician.

Sidi laughed. "Perhaps, but I don't care." He c.o.c.ked his head to one side as if listening. "He's here."

"Who?" asked the liche.

"One who will gain for us what we've sought for the last twenty years, Savan. I do not wish him to enter this chamber; he is not ready to see you and your servants, to know to whom he is swearing fealty. When I have given him the gift, and let it work upon him, perhaps then. I shall go now."

As Sidi walked away, the dead magician said, "Bind him to our service!"

"Soon."

Sidi walked along the tunnel leading to the pa.s.sage up to the surface. The pirate they called Bear would be putting ash.o.r.e in a small boat soon, wending his way through the wrecks submerged off the rocky prominence called Widow's Point. Sidi would meet him on the sand below the secret entrance to the Black Pear Temple. Eventually, thought Sidi, if Bear carried out his mission and showed his usefulness, he would enter the temple, to be sworn finally to Sidi's service.

But until that time, Sidi would let him think he was working on a simple commission, as the Nighthawks had for years before they discovered they were serving more than their petty family and clan loyalties. By the time Bear learned the truth it would be too late.

As he neared the secret entrance, Sidi reached into a deep pocket in his robe and pulled out an amulet. Fas.h.i.+oned from burnished bronze, the heavy chain was curiously darkened, a tarnish that no amount of polish could remove. It showed a face, the icon chosen by those who served the Nameless One, the fox-faced demon who provided their liaison with the demon realm.

So many things to do, and such unreliable minions, thought Sidi as he triggered the release to open the sliding door hidden in the rocks of the cliff. He really should find someone reliable one day. But he conceded to himself that the lack of reliable servants was the price one paid for secrets; of all who served Sidi, none knew his true agenda, or more importantly, who really was the source of the magician's dark powers. As the door began to slide, Sidi thought it might be nice someday to have someone to take into his confidence, to confide in, to serve as more than a witless p.a.w.n. He pushed aside such thoughts as the door came fully open.

The western wind blew spindrift across his face and he raised his hand to shade his eyes against the setting sun, crimson on the horizon as it sank. A s.h.i.+p lay at anchor off the point, a one-time Quegan war-galley taken in a raid, its outline a dark and brooding shape against the sunset.

The longboat made its way between the upthrust masts of s.h.i.+ps that had blundered upon the rocks in foul weather, giving this spur of land its name. Few came to Widow's Point willingly, which made it the perfect place from which to strike at a s.h.i.+p. The pirate who approached was familiar with these waters and had raided from them before.

As the longboat entered the surf and was carried forward by the combers, Sidi looked once more at the relief on the amulet. The ruby eyes of the fox-faced demon had begun to glow. It had taken years for Sidi to fas.h.i.+on the artifact that he was about to give to the pirate, but it would protect Bear from the priests' magic and from physical harm. He would be invulnerable while he wore it. Moreover, it would allow the master to whisper in his dreams, bringing Bear to his service.

Despite the setbacks in the desert and the failure to remove the Upright Man in Krondor, Sidi felt almost triumphant, for soon he would possess the single most powerful artifact on this world, and once he had that in his possession, his wort on behalf of the true master would really begin.

As the large pirate climbed out of the boat and walked knee-deep through the brine towards Sidi, the magician basked in the knowledge of ultimate victory.