Jimmy the Hand (9 page)

‘We were
attacked by street boys,’ Jimmy chattered on—over-explaining
made guilt look more plausible. ‘They stole our clothes and
pushed us in a sty. The maid at home gave us some coins to get
cleaned up. Please, sir, my mother is very strict and she’ll be
very, very angry if we go home in this condition.’ Jimmy had
always been good at mimicry, and the time spent with Prince Arutha
and Princess Anita had given him a wealth of new ways to speak when
he needed. He sounded plausible in the role of the son of a minor
noble or rich merchant. As long as Larry remembered to keep his mouth
shut.

He and Larry had
more than enough scrapes and bruises to make their story seem
authentic. Knocking about in dark sewers and climbing walls and
houses had added a good share of cuts as well.

‘Go on
through,’ the doorwarden said. ‘You can use the baths,
but rinse off good first. You’ll have to find your own
clothes—this isn’t a tailor’s shop, lads.’

They went
through; the doorwarden spoke a few words in the ear of the woman who
sat by bathers’ clothes so they wouldn’t be lifted, and
her scowl cleared a bit.

‘I’ll
not put those wipe-rags near honest folk’s clothing,’ she
said.

‘Take them
away and burn them,’ Jimmy instructed, as he and Larry
stripped. That was in character; even rags were worth something, and
the woman would undoubtedly get a few coppers for them. She nodded
and smiled, and Jimmy knew that later that night she would be boiling
them clean and selling them to a rag peddler by this time tomorrow.

‘You,
boy,’ Jimmy said, beginning to enjoy himself. One of the
attendants put down his broom and came over.

‘My
brother and I will require new garments,’ Jimmy said loftily.
He looked at the boy before him and estimated that he was just
between his and Larry’s size. ‘I need you to buy us some
new things. Trousers, shirts and linen,’ he instructed.
‘Something just too large to fit you for me, and something just
too small to fit you for my brother. We’ll have to do without
shoes and stockings, I suppose.’ He glanced at Larry who
nodded, a supercilious expression on his face. ‘The colours
should be muted,’ he went on, sighing at the confused
expression on the boy’s face. ‘Nothing red or orange or
patterned,’ he explained.

He counted out
five small silvers, more than enough for the items. ‘You may
keep the change,’ Jimmy said, ensuring that it would be. ‘And
if you hurry back, you shall have this.’ He held up two more
silver coins.

‘Thank
you, sir,’ the boy said, tugging his forelock, and rushed off.

‘Shall we
enjoy the steam room while we wait?’

Larry sniffed
his arm and made a face. ‘Yes!’ he said fervently.

Clean and
dressed, the two of them headed for the Poor Quarter. They looked
respectable enough, like apprentices, perhaps, except for their lack
of shoes, so it was reasonable to think themselves fairly safe in the
respectable parts of town. But under the circumstances they couldn’t
make themselves feel safe, a fact never far from their minds.

In the Poor
Quarter their new clothes might raise a passing eyebrow, but it would
be obvious from their attitude that they belonged and that the first
glance wouldn’t be followed by a second.

Ordinarily, that
is. But then, under ordinary circumstances there would be street
children and beggars everywhere, and not a few whores plying their
trade. Now, as the two boys walked along they found the streets
nearly deserted. The few people walking about were mostly grown men,
their eyes constantly moving, and from them Jimmy and Larry received
a great deal of attention. It felt as if they were surrounded by the
secret police.

‘I can’t
take this,’ Larry said. ‘I keep expectin’ someone
to grab my neck. I’m goin’ to the Rest.’

Jimmy shook his
head. ‘Not me. I’ve had enough of sewers for one day. I’m
for a drink.’

The younger boy
shook his head. ‘Not tonight.’ He looked at Jimmy for a
moment. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, and it was almost a
question.

Jimmy nodded.
‘Tomorrow.’ He made it sound like a promise.

They separated
then, without so much as a backward glance; Larry disappearing into
the gloom of an alleyway, Jimmy walking along the street.

As he walked,
Jimmy thought.

The mortared
collar needs to go, and we’ve got to do it some way that won’t
draw the guards.
That was easier said than done.
Drugs?
he
wondered. It would have to be something potent, to make them
oblivious to the noise of stonework.

But there was no
way to get to the guards without going to gaol, wherein getting at
the guards was problematic at best.

Deep down an
idea stirred. Too formless yet to grasp, Jimmy let it go and simply
followed his feet, trying not to think at all. He’d found that
sometimes ideas were like that, they’d flee if you pursued
them, but they just might come to you if you just left them be.

He walked along,
hands in his pockets, eyes on his bare toes, listening to the sounds
around him for quite a while, and quite a way. Finally he stopped and
looked up to find himself before a tavern. There wasn’t a sign,
unless you counted the anatomically based scratchings on the
once-plastered wall, but there was a withered bunch of branches
pinned above the door. That let out the noise of voices, the smell of
rushes not changed in a long time, and much spilled beer.

Ah, yes,
he grinned, and went in.
Where else? My feet are smarter than my
head tonight; they’ve led me straight to the place I want.
It wasn’t until this moment that Jimmy realized that what he
really needed was magic. How else were they going to do it? And where
else in Krondor would he find a magician willing to help him? Nowhere
else.

And there was
only one magician within a week’s travel who wouldn’t ask
too many questions first, or tell someone else: Asher.

The few
magicians in the principality with enough power or wealth to avoid
being hunted down by locals for perceived curses—dead calves,
curdled milk, crops to fail—all tended to keep to themselves.
There was a three-storey stone house with a courtyard, near the
southeastern gate to the city, that was reputed to be the occasional
home of a powerful mage, but each time Jimmy had passed it, he could
detect no signs of life. From time to time word would spread through
the city that a travelling magician was stopping at this or that inn,
and whether they were willing to trade services or magical goods for
gold, but that was a rare event.

No, Asher was
unique: a magician and a drunk. And from what was rumoured, one who
also liked to gamble and enjoy the company of women less than half
his age. So he kept permanent residence in the part of the city where
no one had calves to stillbirth, milk to curdle, or crops to fail.
With so few prosperous undertakings in the Poor Quarter, there was
scarcely any reason to seek someone else to blame for failure.
Failure was a daily fact of life here.

The tavern had
seen better days; the booth-like ‘snugs’ tucked into the
corner were too fancy for its present clientele, most of whom sat on
their knife scabbards as they threw dice, to keep themselves
conscious of where the hilts were.

Jimmy looked
into the farthest corner in the place and his grin grew wider. But
then finding Alban Asher in this tavern was as reliable as finding
bad ale in a dirty mug. Jimmy had never seen him anywhere but in his
cobwebbed corner. For all the young thief knew he’d grown roots
there. But then, Asher didn’t need to go anywhere. The world
came to him. Despite being an old sot, compulsive gambler and
womanizer, if he was sober enough, the spells he sold worked very
well indeed. Jimmy had heard of a few failures, but they were more a
disappointment than a disaster. Certainly not enough to put off any
potential business. Besides, where else would one go in the
principality to find a magician willing to sell magic for enough gold
to get drunk on, sit down at a card game, or convince a young girl to
bed someone her grandfather’s age?

Jimmy got
himself a mug of ale and acquired a cup of the tavern’s best
wine. Which smelled raw enough to strip tar, and though he wasn’t
the most fastidious fellow in the city, he had no intention of
actually drinking the ale he’d bought. Going over to the
magician’s table Jimmy placed the wine before him and sat in
the other seat, watching the formless heap of black robes across from
him.

It took a moment
for the man to come to life, but the scent of the wine eventually
evoked a response. A clawlike hand reached out of a sleeve and lifted
the cup; the magician took a sip and made a guttural, approving
sound. Jimmy’s throat closed when he thought of what the man
must usually imbibe. The magician hiccupped and then gave a powerful
belch, chuckling evilly at Jimmy’s expression when the vapours
hit him.

Jimmy sat,
waiting.

It was
impossible to guess Asher’s age. For one thing, the tavern was
dark, and this corner of it darker still; for another, the magician’s
head was surrounded by a bush of sandy hair. His beard, moustache,
eyebrows and head-hair were all as thick and impenetrable as a
bramble bush. As for his face, all that could be seen were a bulbous
nose almost the same shade as the wine and the gleam of his eyes
beneath his shaggy brows. It was suspected he might be as young as
sixty summers, but then again, some suggested he was ninety and being
kept alive by dark spells. All Jimmy knew from rumours was that the
magician existed in a state of seeming indifference to the world
around him unless he was drinking, gambling or whoring. And by all
reports when the drinking wasn’t excessive, he was fairly
successful with the gambling and whoring.

‘Ye want
somethin’,’ Alban Asher the magician said in a
matter-of-fact tone. His voice was deep and raspy. Even sitting down
he was weaving, indicating that he was already well into the bottle.

‘Yessir,’
Jimmy confirmed cheerfully. ‘I’ll pay extra for secrecy.’

After a moment
Asher chuckled in a way that spoke of pure greed. With a gesture he
encouraged Jimmy to continue.

‘I need
one or two spells that I can carry away with me and set off where and
when I want,’ the young thief said.

‘Love
spells,’ Asher said, nodding sagely. ‘Boys yer age’re
all after love spells.’ He chuckled salaciously and touched one
grubby finger to his nose.

Jimmy supposed
that he winked, but couldn’t tell. ‘No,’ he said
quickly, ‘not a love spell.’

‘Boys yer
age . . .’ the magician began, sounding annoyed.

‘Definitely
not a love spell,’ Jimmy repeated.

I prefer my
girls to have a choice in the matter,
he thought.
It’s a
matter of pride.
Not that there was any point in trying to
explain that to someone oblivious to the concept.

‘I’ve
got a mortared wall I need to take down but I don’t want to
break my back. Have you got anything for that?’

Asher stabbed a
finger at him. ‘Yer a thief.’ he snarled in a rather loud
whisper.

Jimmy rolled his
eyes. ‘Thieves don’t knock down walls,’ he pointed
out.

The mass of hair
bunched around the magician’s nose in what Jimmy assumed was a
frown. ‘Mmm, true,’ Asher agreed, blinking like an owl
suddenly confronting a lantern light. ‘Got somethin’
might work.’ He rubbed his chin ruminatively. ‘Somethin’
about it though . . .’

‘I’ll
take it,’ Jimmy said quickly, sure now that the magician was
drunk. ‘I also need something to knock people out.’

‘Ah!’
Asher said and chuckled. ‘Girls! I knew it!’ Then he
chuckled some more.

Jimmy had
noticed that Asher had the most nuanced chuckle he’d ever
heard. In this case it indicated that the magician’s relations
with women when he hadn’t enough gold for whores wouldn’t
bear close scrutiny.

‘No, no
girls,’ Jimmy said. ‘Men, big, heavy men, so if size is
an issue you should plan for that.’

‘Men?’
the magician said as though he’d never heard of them before.
After a moment he shrugged. ‘Ah, well, takes all kinds. I’ve
got somethin’—I c’n make it stronger. It’s
that wall spell . . .’

His voice faded
off and he looked over Jimmy’s head so steadily the boy thief
turned around to look. There was no one there but the tavern keeper,
dozing behind the bar, and a man weeping into his beer. That would
normally have attracted derisive attention had anyone else been
present, except that the man looked to weigh about half what a heavy
cavalryman’s horse did, and had a scar like a young gully from
the point of his jaw up over one empty eye-socket, not to mention
layers of slick tissue half an inch thick over the knuckles of both
hands.

Jimmy looked at
the magician out of the corner of his eye, then back at the bar. If
Asher wanted more wine he’d have to wait until they’d
finished their negotiations and the goods had changed hands.

‘What’s
wrong with the wall spell?’ Jimmy asked. ‘Doesn’t
it work?’

‘Oh, aye,
it works,’ Asher said slowly. He shook his head as though that
might dislodge something in his mind. ‘There’s jist,
somethin’ . . .’ He reached out with thumb and
forefinger, as if to grasp something.

‘Is it
dangerous?’ Jimmy asked, his voice sounding as though he could
be.

The magician
blew out his cheeks. ‘Only if ye’re not supposed to use
it!’ he said. ‘It works! It works very well, I tell ye.’

‘What
about the knock-out spell?’ Jimmy asked.

With a
dismissive wave of his hand Asher plopped a small bag onto the table.
‘Hardly magic at all,’ he said. ‘But you want it
for big strapping fellows, instead of skinny little girls . . .’
He paused, looked at Jimmy for a moment as if trying to understand
something totally alien to his imagination, then said, ‘Never
mind. Give me a moment.’ He closed his eyes, waved his hand
over the bag and muttered for a few minutes.