Jimmy the Hand (39 page)

The Baron smiled
and shook his head. He was about to speak when he noticed that
Lyman’s eyes had gone distant, which surprised him. Up until
this moment the little fellow had been an excellent and most
attentive guest. But almost immediately Lyman’s eyes cleared
and he looked gravely at the Baron.

‘A child
will be born in this house tonight,’ he said. ‘A boy.’

‘How could
you know that?’ Bernarr asked in wonder. ‘The Baroness is
with child, but she isn’t due so soon.’

Lyman smiled
tersely. ‘I would not trust everyone with this knowledge,’
he said. ‘But, as you are an educated man, beyond crude peasant
superstition, and so generous a host, I will confess. I am a
magician.’

‘Ah,’
was all Bernarr said. But he wondered what to do. He’d taken an
instant liking to his mysterious guest, and like most citizens of the
Kingdom he had his doubts about those who dabbled in magic; yet he
felt a curious kinship with Malachy. He chose to be delicate; after
all, the man would be gone in the morning. ‘That must cause you
some . . . difficulty.’

‘It has at
times,’ Lyman admitted. ‘There is prejudice against those
of us who follow the art, who have the gift . . . But fortunately for
me my family was well off and I was sent far from home to study. As a
result, no one who knew me as a child knows of my talents, and as my
parents left me with a handsome legacy, I am able to support myself
quite comfortably. Which means I can afford to buy books!’

They both
grinned at that. Then came a sharp rap on the door.

‘Come,’
Bernarr called.

A servant
appeared, his face drawn and his eyes wide. ‘My lord! The Lady
Elaine’s time has come!’

Bernarr rose to
his feet, his heart leaping to his throat. As he passed his guest, he
saw a small smile raise the corner of the magician’s mouth.

Images sped by.

The midwife
standing by the door, a worried expression on her face. ‘The
baby is coming . . .’ and then her words faded.

Then the face of
Elaine, pale and drenched in perspiration as the midwife commanded
her to push. The screaming and the blood.

The crying baby,
held out proudly by the midwife, who said, ‘You have a son, my
lady’ to the fading Baroness, who was in too much pain even to
recognize the baby for what it was.

Blood was
everywhere.

Blood.

Bernarr turned
in bed, moaning and crying,
No!
he tried to say, but only
another low groan escaped his lips.

Then Lyman was
at his shoulder. His manner was calm and commanding. ‘Everyone
leave the room,’ he said simply.

Then the
screaming stopped.

Bernarr sat up
in bed. He was panting as if he had run for hours, and his still-fit
body was taut and drenched with perspiration as if he had fought a
battle. He rolled out of bed, pulled off his soaked night shirt, and
threw it across the floor. Through the window he could see the
morning sun had just crested the mountains, and another day had
started.
Only hours,
he thought, as he sat naked on the bed,
reaching for a mug and the pitcher of water left on the night table.
He drank and refilled the mug to drink again.

But the other
thirst—the thirst to end this nightmare that had plagued him
for seventeen years, to see his Elaine restored and free of the
endless pain—still lingered.

Standing up, he
moved to the tub of water awaiting his morning wash. He didn’t
mind the cold water: he had grown used to it. He needed to cleanse
himself of the foul feeling on his skin, and would not don clothing
until he did. He stepped into the small copper tub, squatted and
grabbed the sponge upon the table next to it, ignoring the chilly
bite of the water.
If only I could clean away my pain,
he
thought, as he had every morning for seventeen years.

But soon . . .

Aunt Cleora went
pale. ‘Oh, Ruthia!’ she gasped, a hand pressed to her
throat.

The horse-dealer
prodded the saddle where it lay on the flagstones of the kitchen
floor. A black-and-white kitten came up to it, sniffing at the
fascinating scents of horse-sweat, leather and blood.

‘Aye, it’s
blood, right enough,’ Kerson said. ‘And this—’
his toe touched the stub of an arrow that jutted up from the rear of
the saddle, ‘—isn’t no hunting shaft, either.’

He produced a
pair of pliers from a loop at his waist and bent, putting one foot on
the saddle and pinching the tool closed on the glint of metal where
arrow shaft joined leather.

‘Come up
there!’ he grunted, heaving backward, the muscles in his arms
and shoulders bunching.

It came free,
and he stuck it under their noses. ‘See? Bodkin point, not a
broad head. None use that, except for hunting men—it’s
meant to pierce armour or jerkin.’

Lorrie stared at
the saddle with a sick dread in her heart, worse even than the cold
feeling that had held her since her family died. She knew they were
dead; she knew Rip was still alive for the feeling was there in
distant flashes. But she didn’t know whether Bram was alive or
dead.

‘The horse
come in at first light,’ Kerson said. It was an hour after
sunrise, and the family had just been finishing the morning meal when
the horse-trader had arrived at the door of the house. ‘Poor
beast had its ribs beat raw by the stirrups, and dried foam caked
halfway to its tail. Looks like it was trotting all night. Took a bad
fright, and I thought seeing’s it was that tall blond lad, your
young niece’s friend, that bought it, and he was on his way
chasing after your niece’s other friend, the lad I sold . . .’
he pointed to Lorrie,’ . . . your old horse to, well, anyway,
seeing as it sort of all fit together, I thought you should know.’

Aunt Cleora
looked around. ‘The Constable?’ she said.

Kerson snorted.
‘For an affray in the town bounds, certainly,’ he said.
‘Although he uses those two-a-penny thief-takers, more than his
own men. No, out on the road it would be the Baron’s
men-at-arms who’d be the ones to see, except he doesn’t
pay no mind to common folks’ problems these fifteen year and
more. The soldiers might turn out if Kesh attacked the city, but for
a lost lad, taken by bandits or slavers, no. They’ll not stir.’

He looked at
Lorrie and Flora, where they sat side by side on the bench. ‘It’s
all that I can do, Miss Flora. I’ve my own family and kin and
business to look after. I just thought you should know, like.’

When the man had
gone, silence lay heavy for a moment. Cleora came over to put an arm
around Lorrie’s shoulders.

‘He went
to look for Rip, and he may be dead,’ Lorrie whispered. ‘And
all because of me.’

Surprisingly,
Flora shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘He would
have looked for your brother anyway. He was that sort of man—I
could tell.’

Lorrie nodded
dumbly, fighting back tears and wiping at her eyes with the back of
her hand.

‘And
Jimmy’s my . . . foster-brother, and he went looking for Rip,
too, and he may be dead,’ Flora said decisively. ‘Or they
may both be hurt. I have to go and look.’

‘That’s
impossible!’ Aunt Cleora squeaked. ‘A young girl, on her
own in the country?’

Even then,
Lorrie had to smile; Aunt Cleora seemed to think goblins and bandits
lurked behind every bush.
Or maybe they do,
she thought,
looking at the saddle again, her eyes drawn to it with unwilling
fascination.

‘She won’t
be going alone. I’m going too!’ Lorrie said.

It’s my
baby brother and my intended. And I can’t let Flora go alone,
after all she’s done for me!

Both the other
women looked at her. ‘But you can barely walk!’ Flora
said.

‘I can use
a stick,’ Lorrie said stoutly.
True, it’s healing
fast, but how far will I get?
she thought, more honestly. ‘I
can ride, maybe. Or crawl, if needs must.’

Aunt Cleora
looked from one to the other. ‘I wish Karl were here with his
men,’ she said unhappily. ‘It’ll only be a couple
of weeks until his ship’s back from Krondor.’ She looked
at them again; Lorrie could tell Flora wore the same mutinous
expression as herself. ‘I don’t like it. I don’t
like it at all,’ Cleora said again. ‘But if you must go,
you’ll take my dog-cart.’

Flora sprang up
and hugged her aunt. The dog-cart was a vehicle with two tall spoked
wheels and a body slung on leather rests, with a folding cover, drawn
by a single horse. It would hold two easily, and on a good road
wouldn’t be too hard on a healing leg.

‘Thank
you, Aunt Flora!’ she said, and Lorrie nodded enthusiastically.

The pretty,
middle-aged features of the older woman creased in worry, but Flora
was already up and about, stuffing things in bags.

‘What is
it?’ Jimmy asked, prodding with his finger at the locket-sized
device that lay on the table.

The old couple
whose cottage it was huddled back by the hearth, unconsciously
gripping hands as they stared at the thing. They had just finished
supper, happy to provide porridge, eggs, a pair of apples and a very
bitter brew that almost passed for ale for another of Jarvis’s
silver pieces.

Jimmy thought
that on another occasion, his entire focus would be upon Jarvis Coe’s
purse, for it seemed to possess an endless supply of silver. But that
was then, and this was now, and there were mysteries to unravel and
boys to save.

Jarvis Coe sat
on a stool, hands on his knees as he leaned forward. His craggy face
was set, and the low flames from the hearth cast restless red lights
across the lines and planes of it. ‘It’s magic,’ he
said softly. Jimmy felt the small hairs bristle down his spine at the
word. ‘Forbidden magic. It’s a man-finder, bound by blood
and bone and seed.’ His finger traced the needle. ‘See,
here? The needle is bone from a dead baby harvested in the dark of
the moons—’

The old woman
moaned and shivered, huddling closer into her husband’s
protective arm.

‘—and
the hair is of the man you wish to seek, or from his close kin.
Mother or father, or both, if you wish to find their child. I’d
say that was the case this time: you said the boy was fair-haired,
and this tress is brown. Not necromancy; not quite, but related to
it. Dark enough magic to be troubling, in any event.’

‘Who are
you, that you know this?’ Jimmy asked.

Jarvis looked up
quickly, his eyes hooded. After a long moment he nodded. ‘Well,
you’ve a right to know, I suppose, if you’re to be
involved in this affair. I’m an agent for the High Priestess of
Lims-Kragma in Krondor.’

The young thief
bounded backward, hand going to his knife. The old midwife made signs
with her hands, and her husband rose too and sidled towards the door,
where his billhook was propped.

Astonishingly,
Jarvis Coe laughed. ‘No, no, my friends, you needn’t
worry. She is the Mistress of Death, not murder. We’re all
coming home to Her, eventually, so she doesn’t need anyone
hurried along.’ His lips quirked, and he quoted in an archaic
dialect:

‘
Under
her sway gois all estatis;

Princes,
prelatis, poetasis;

She sparis na
prince, for his presence

Na clerk, for
his intelligence;

Her awful
straik may no man flee . . .
’

Jimmy who had no
time for such fripperies, nodded stiffly, still alert and poised.
‘And what are you doing on the trail of men who kidnap
children?’ he asked.

‘The
Temple particularly doesn’t like people who make death-magic,’
Coe said.

‘Why not?’
Jimmy said, thinking of rumours he’d heard of those
priestesses.

‘Because
it gives the Goddess a bad reputation,’ Coe said. ‘And
that endangers the temples. In ages past, before the temples reached
accord with the Crown and agreed to allow the Temple of Ishap to
settle disputes, there was more than one riot in which an angry mob
sacked a temple and killed all the worshippers. Even with a hundred
years and more of peace between the temples, there’s still a
strong potential for mayhem if word of something like this gets out,
and if people think the Temple of Lims-Kragma had a hand in it.

‘Moreover,
it’s stealing from Lims-Kragma: the life energies which should
be returned to Her hall for judging are denied their proper placement
on the next turn of the Wheel of Life. Those souls are tortured,
tormented and eventually vanish as if they had never existed. It’s
an abomination and heresy of the worst stripe.

‘No good
ever comes from these practices, and only those who are truly evil or
truly fools undertake such.’ He showed his teeth. ‘I am
the particular “no good” that will come to the
necromancer who’s working in the vicinity. I’m no
magician myself,’ he went on. ‘But I do have some . . .
talent in these areas . . . and I have resources from my employers,
which will help me deal with him.’

‘But not
necessarily mercenaries, stone walls and iron bars?’ Jimmy said
sardonically.

I’m
really not happy,
he thought.
I’d almost rather he was
one of Jocko’s spies. On the other hand, he’s likely to
be much more useful than one of the secret police, and if I’m
to undertake hero-of-legend deeds against an evil enchanter, no less,
I could do with some help.

He didn’t
want to go back to Lorrie and tell her he couldn’t find Rip:
after all, he’d promised. On the other hand, he didn’t
want to be chained to a red-hot metal plate in a dungeon for the next
thousand years, either; or have his death-essence used to power a
spell. Risk was one thing, doom another.

Besides, I
suspect that ducking out on friend Coe would be unlucky. I do not
want the hatred of a goddess dogging my steps. Her favour, on the
other hand, and the favour of her priestesses . . .