Krondor the Betrayal (11 page)

As sundown approached, Locklear heard the tread of boots upon the cobbles above. A few voices were raised, and Locklear said, ‘‘Now!’’

He moved quickly up the side of the bank just beyond the bridge, ducking behind some crates as a party of men dis-persed under the watchful eye of the city guard. ‘‘They’ll come this way, back toward the palace,’’ said Locklear. ‘‘We just duck in beside them, and even if we’re seen, it’s unlikely we’re going to be attacked with a dozen soldiers ready to start busting heads at the first sign of trouble.’’ He pointed to Gorath.

‘‘But you’d better fix that hood. Most people here wouldn’t know an elf from a moredhel if you hung signs around your neck, but you never know. If Ruthia’s fickle, the first person we meet will be an old vet from the wars to the north.’’ Ruthia was the Goddess of Luck.

Gorath did as he was told and pulled his hood forward, hiding his features, and when the soldiers walked down the road beside the stream, he followed Locklear and Owyn as they hurried to match pace with the soldiers.

They walked from the northeasternmost corner of the city along its entire length to the southern gate, and when the city watch moved toward the palace entrance, Locklear pulled them aside.

Owyn said, ‘‘Why don’t we just follow them in?’’

‘‘Look,’’ said Locklear. They looked where he pointed and saw a work crew gathered before the gate, with two teams of horses tied to a pulley. ‘‘It seems someone has sabotaged the gate,’’ said Locklear.

The watch commander shouted something down from the wall to the patrol leader, who saluted and turned his men 70

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around. ‘‘Come on, lads,’’ he said, ‘‘we’re for the northern gate.’’

Locklear motioned for his companions to follow him, and he led them through a back alley. ‘‘This way,’’ he urged.

He took them to what appeared to be the back entrance to a small inn and opened the gate. Once through, he closed the gate, and they stood in a tiny stabling yard, with a small shed off to one side. Looking to see if they were observed, Locklear pointed to the rear door of the inn. ‘‘If anyone finds us, we’re lost, looking for a meal, and once we get inside the inn, head toward the front door; if anyone objects, we run like hell.’’

Gorath said, ‘‘Where are we?’’

‘‘The back of an inn owned by people who would be less than pleased to discover we knew about this place, or what I’m about to do.’’ He moved toward the shed, but rather than going inside, he moved to where it joined with the wall. Feeling around behind the shed, Locklear tripped a lever, and a latch clicked. A big stone rolled away, and Owyn and Gorath could see it was a cleverly fashioned sham, made of canvas and painted to look like the rock of the wall. Locklear was forced to lie down and wiggle feetfirst through the small aper-ture, but he successfully negotiated the entrance. Owyn went next, and Gorath last, barely clearing the opening.

‘‘Who uses that thing?’’ asked Owyn in a whisper.

‘‘Children?’’

‘‘Yes,’’ said Locklear. ‘‘The Mockers number many urchins in their ranks, and there are dozens of bolt-holes like that all over the city.’’

‘‘Where are we?’’ asked Owyn.

‘‘Use your senses, human,’’ said Gorath. ‘‘Or can’t your breed smell its own stink?’’

‘‘Oh,’’ Owyn exclaimed, as the stench of the sewer struck him.

Locklear reached up and pulled shut the trap, leaving them in total darkness.

‘‘My kind see in darkness better than yours do, Locklear,’’

said Gorath, ‘‘but even we must have some light.’’

‘‘There should be a lantern close by,’’ said Locklear. ‘‘If I can remember the distance . . . and direction.’’

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‘‘What?’’ asked Gorath. ‘‘You don’t know where a light is?’’

‘‘I can help,’’ said Owyn. A moment later a faint nimbus of light started to glow around the young man’s right hand, and it grew until they could see a dozen paces in all directions.

‘‘How did you do that?’’ asked Locklear.

Owyn held out his left hand. On it was a ring. ‘‘I took it off Nago. It’s magic.’’

‘‘Which way?’’ asked Gorath.

‘‘This way,’’ said Locklear, leading them into the sewers of Krondor.

‘‘Where are we?’’ whispered Owyn.

Locklear lost his sure tone as he said, ‘‘I think we’re just north of the palace.’’

‘‘You think?’’ said Gorath with a snort of contempt.

‘‘All right,’’ said Locklear with a petulant tone. ‘‘So I’m a little lost. I’ll find—’’

‘‘Your death, quick and messy,’’ said a voice from outside the range of Owyn’s light.

Three swords cleared their scabbards as Locklear tried to pierce the gloom beyond the light by force of will.

‘‘Who be you and what would you in the Thieves’ Highway?’’

Locklear cocked his head at the bad attempt at a formal challenge and, judging the owner of the voice to be a youth, he answered, ‘‘I be Seigneur Locklear, and I do whatever I will in the Prince’s sewers. If you’re half as intelligent as you’re trying to sound, you’ll know not to bar our way.’’

A young boy stepped forward from the shadows, slender and wearing a tunic too large for him, wrapped around the waist with a rope belt, trousers he had almost outgrown, and sporting a pointed felt cap. He carried a short sword. ‘‘I’m Limm and fast with a blade. Step any farther without my leave, and your blood will flow.’’

Gorath said, ‘‘The only thing you’ll do is die, boy, if you don’t stand aside.’’

If the towering presence of the moredhel chieftain had any effect on the lad, he hid it as he bravely said, ‘‘I’ve bested better than you when I was a boy.’’ He stepped back, cau-72

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tiously. ‘‘And besides, I’ve got five bashers back there waiting for my call.’’

Locklear held up his hand to restrain Gorath. ‘‘You remind me of a young Jimmy the Hand,’’ said Locklear. ‘‘Full of blus-ter as well as guile. Run off and there’s no need for anyone’s blood to flow.’’ Softly to Gorath he said, ‘‘If he has bashers nearby, we don’t need the trouble.’’

‘‘Jimmy the Hand, is it?’’ asked Limm. ‘‘Well, if you’re friends of Seigneur James, we’ll let you pass. But when you see him, tell him he had better come soon, or the deal is off.’’

Before Locklear could answer, Limm was deep in shadows, so silently they could barely hear him move. From a distance he said, ‘‘And watch your step, Locklear who knows Jimmy the Hand. There are nasty customers nearby.’’ As the voice faded, Limm added, ‘‘And you’re completely turned around. Turn to the right at the next culvert, and straight on until you reach the palace.’’

Locklear waited, listening for more. But only silence punctuated by the trickling sound of water and the occasional echo of some distant sound in the sewer could be heard.

Gorath said, ‘‘That was passing strange.’’

‘‘Yes,’’ agreed Owyn.

‘‘More than you know,’’ said Locklear. ‘‘That boy was waiting for my friend James. And James has the death mark on him from the Mockers if he ever trespasses their territory. That was a deal struck by Prince Arutha for James’s life years ago.’’

Owyn said, ‘‘Sometimes agreements change.’’

‘‘Or are broken,’’ added Gorath.

Locklear said, ‘‘Well, we’ll sort this out later. Right now we need to find our way to the palace.’’

‘‘What did he mean by ‘nasty customers nearby’?’’ asked Owyn.

‘‘I don’t know,’’ answered Locklear. ‘‘I have a feeling if we’re not careful, we’ll find out,’’ he whispered.

They turned in the direction instructed by Limm and moved to the corner where he had told them to turn. A short way along the indicated route, Gorath said, ‘‘Someone ahead.’’

Owyn put his ring under his right arm, causing the light to diminish. ‘‘Two men,’’ whispered Gorath. ‘‘Wearing black.’’

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‘‘Which is why I can’t see them,’’ said Locklear.

‘‘Who are they?’’ asked Owyn.

Locklear turned and knew his withering look was lost in the gloom, so he said, ‘‘Why don’t you just go up and ask them?’’

‘‘If they aren’t the Prince’s men or those Mockers, then they must be enemies,’’ said Gorath, stepping forward quickly, his sword ready to deliver a killing blow.

Locklear hesitated a moment, and by the time he started moving, the dark elf was upon the two men. The first turned just in time to see his own death arrive, for Gorath slashed him deeply across the chest and shoulder.

The second man drew his sword and attempted to slash down on Gorath’s head, but Locklear stepped in and parried the blow high, allowing Gorath to run him through. It was over in seconds.

Locklear knelt and examined the two bodies. They wore identical trousers and tunics of black material, and black-leather boots. Both men had short swords, and one had laid aside a short bow within easy reach. Both men were without purse or pouch, but both wore identical medallions under their tunics.

‘‘Nighthawks!’’ said Locklear.

‘‘Assassins?’’ asked Owyn.

‘‘But they should have . . .’’ Locklear shook his head. ‘‘If these two are Nighthawks, I’m Gorath’s grandfather.’’

Gorath snorted at the idea, but asked, ‘‘We have heard of your Nighthawks; some were employed by agents of Murmandamus.’’

Owyn said, ‘‘The stories are they had nearly magical abilities.’’

‘‘Stories,’’ said Locklear. ‘‘My friend James faced one on the rooftops of the city when he was no more than a lad of four-teen years and lived to tell the tale.’’ Locklear stood. ‘‘They were good, but no more than other men. But the legend helped them get their price. But these’’—he indicated the two dead men—‘‘were not Nighthawks.’’

A whistle sounded from down a nearby tunnel. Gorath spun, his sword ready to face another attack. Locklear, however, just put two fingers to his mouth and whistled in return.

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A moment later a young man stepped into the light. ‘‘Locky?’’

he asked.

‘‘Jimmy!’’ said Locklear as he embraced his old friend. ‘‘We were just speaking of you.’’

James, Squire of the Prince’s court, regarded his best friend.

He took in the long hair gathered behind in a knot and the bushy moustache, and said, ‘‘What have you done to your hair?’’

‘‘I haven’t seen you in months, and the first thing you ask about is fashion?’’ asked Locklear.

James grinned. His face was youthful, though he was no longer a boy. He had curly brown hair he kept cropped short and was dressed in plain clothing, tunic, trousers, boots, and cloak. He carried only a belt knife. ‘‘What brings you back to court? Arutha banished you for a year, if memory serves.’’

‘‘This moredhel,’’ said Locklear. ‘‘His name is Gorath, and he brings a warning to Arutha.’’ Pointing to his other companion, he said, ‘‘And this is Owyn, son of the Baron of Timons.

He’s been of great help to me, also.’’

James said, ‘‘A moredhel chieftain in Krondor. Well, things are getting strange hereabouts, too.’’ He glanced down at the two dead men. ‘‘Someone has bribed a few very stupid men to play the part of Nighthawks, here in the sewers and in other parts of town.’’

‘‘Why?’’ asked Locklear.

‘‘We don’t know,’’ said James. ‘‘I’m on my way to meet with some . . . old acquaintances of mine. To see if we can cooperate in uncovering who is behind this mummery.’’

‘‘The Mockers,’’ said Locklear. ‘‘We ran into one of them, a lad named Limm.’’

James nodded. ‘‘I’m to meet with some of them shortly. I had better not disappoint them. But before I go, what are you doing down here in the sewer?’’

Locklear said, ‘‘Someone wants Gorath dead very badly. I’ve been cut more times than a horse’s flank by a cheap butcher.

We’re here because we need to get into the palace, and I’ve seen lots of very dangerous-looking men watching the entrances to the palace. When I tried to get us in by shadowing the city watch trying to enter, we found the gate damaged.’’

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‘‘Someone sabotaged it, as well as the north palace entry.

The only way into the palace right now is through the sea-dock gate, or here.’’

Locklear looked concerned. ‘‘They even had the gate jammed to keep us from reaching the palace?’’

James nodded. ‘‘That would explain the mystery. Look, go see Arutha, and I’ll catch up with you later.’’

‘‘That’s the way?’’ asked Locklear.

‘‘Yes,’’ said James. He fished out a key and handed it to Locklear. ‘‘But we’ve locked the secret door, so you’d have had a long wait if I hadn’t chanced by.’’

‘‘I might have picked the lock,’’ said Locklear. ‘‘I’ve watched you do it a few times.’’

‘‘And pigs might fly,’’ said James with a pat on his friend’s shoulder. ‘‘It’s good to see you back, even if under such dark clouds.’’ He pointed the way he had come. ‘‘Make your way past two large culverts on the left, and you’ll find the ladder to the palace.’’ With a departing grin, he added, ‘‘I suggest you bathe before calling upon Arutha.’’

Locklear smiled, then laughed. For the first time in months he suddenly felt safe. They were but a short walk away from the entrance to the palace, and he knew that soon he would be enjoying a hot bath. ‘‘Come see me when you’ve returned,’’

he said to James. ‘‘We have much to catch up on.’’

‘‘I will,’’ said James.

Locklear led Gorath and Owyn to the ladder that led up into the palace, a series of iron bars hammered into the stones rising a floor above. There a grate with a heavy lock had been erected, and Locklear used the key James had provided to open it. They swung aside the grate and moved into a small tunnel just above the sewers, leading into the lower basement of the palace. Locklear silently led them to a door. Once through, Owyn and Gorath saw they were in another passage, this one lit by torches in widely separated sconces, and when the door was returned to its resting place, it vanished into the stone wall.

Locklear led them to his quarters, past a pair of palace guards who only watched with interest as the Prince’s squire walked past with another youth and what looked like a tall elf.

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Glancing through a window overlooking the city, Locklear said, ‘‘Suppertime’s in about an hour. Time for a bath, a change of clothing. We can talk to the Prince after the meal.’’