Into a Dark Realm. Raymond E. Feist
The young man fixed Kaspar with what the former duke assumed was a suspicious expression, but all it did was make the lad look ridiculous. ‘Why do you seek this boy?’
‘His father was pressed into the army; the lad came looking for him. And his mother is looking for both of them.’
‘And you’re looking for the mother, too?’
‘All of them,’ said Kaspar. ‘They’re friends.’
The youth shrugged. ‘Sorry, but we only notice those that are causing trouble.’
‘What about the gang of boys?’
‘You’ll usually find them down near the caravanserai or in the market. If too many of them gather, we chase them away, but they just gather somewhere else.’
Kaspar thanked the young constable and left the office. He looked up and down the busy street, as if seeking inspiration, feeling like a man crawling across a battle field seeking one specific arrow among the tens of thousands that had fallen. He glanced skyward and fixed the hour at approximately half-way between noon and sundown. He knew that the markets here were busy throughout the day, with no cease in the afternoon for rest as it was in the hotter parts of Great Kesh. Here the markets were thronged with buyers and hawkers until shortly before sundown, then there was a frantic bustle of activity as the merchants finished for the day. He had approximately two and a half hours before sundown.
He reached the market and glanced around. The market was haphazardly organized across a sprawling plaza created more by happenstance than design. Kaspar assumed that originally there had been one major road through town – the north-to-south highway that dominated this region. Somewhere in years past circumstances had shifted the route a hundred yards or so to the east, and at that point buildings had been thrown up all around. As a result, a half-dozen lesser streets and a handful of alleyways led off from this area; the empty space in the middle served as the market.
Kaspar saw a fair number of children, most helping their families in booths or tents. There was little order to the market in Higara, save by common agreement it appeared no one was permitted to erect a tent, booth, or table in the centre of the square. There a single lamppost reared up, equidistant from the intersections of side streets forming the square. Kaspar wandered over to it and saw that it had a usable lantern hanging from the top, so he assumed it was lit by some townsman each night, perhaps one of the constables. This was the only lamppost he had seen in Higara, so he assumed the office of lamplighter was hardly likely. He noticed faint writing carved into the post: somewhere back in antiquity a ruler had decided a direction marker had been necessary at this point. Kaspar ran his hand over the ancient wood, wondering what secrets of ages past it had overheard whispered below its single lantern.
Leaning against the post, he surveyed his surroundings. Like the practised hunter he was, he noticed little things that would have escaped the attention of most others. Two boys hung around by the entrance to an alley, apparently discussing something, but clearly watching. Lookouts, Kaspar decided. But lookouts for what?
After nearly half an hour of watching, Kaspar had some sense of it. Every so often one boy, or more often a pair, would exit from or enter the alley. If anyone else approached too closely, a signal was made – Kaspar assumed a whistle or a single word, though he was too far away to hear. When the potential threat moved past, another signal was given.
Curiosity as much as a desire to chase down information about Jorgen and his mother impelled Kaspar through the market to the distant alley. He approached, but halted just shy of where he had seen the lookouts.
He waited, observed, and waited some more. He could sense as much as see that something was about to happen, and then it did.
Like rats erupting from a flooding sewer during a sudden downpour, the boys came roiling out of the alley. The two lookouts just ran, in seemingly random directions, but the dozen or so after them were all carrying loaves of bread – someone must have found a way into the back of a bakery and handed out as much fresh bread as he could before the baker cried alarm. A moment later shouts echoed across the square as merchants became aware that a crime was in progress.
One boy of no more than ten hurried right past Kaspar, who reached out and snagged him by the collar of his filthy tunic. The boy instantly released his bread and threw his arms straight up, and Kaspar realized he was about to slip right out of the rag he wore as a shirt.
Kaspar grabbed him instead by his dirty long black hair. The youngster yelled, ‘Let me go!’
Kaspar hauled him away down another alley. When he was out of sight of those in the market, he hiked the lad around and inspected him. The boy was kicking, trying to bite and strike him with surprising strength, but Kaspar had grappled with an assortment of wild animals all his life, including one unforgettable and nearly disastrous encounter with an angry wolverine. Hanging on to that creature’s neck with an iron grip and holding its tail had been the only thing between Kaspar and being eviscerated, until his father’s master of the hunt could come and dispatch the animal. He still carried an assortment of scars from that encounter.
‘Stop struggling, and I’ll put you down, but you have to agree to answer a few questions.’
‘Let me go!’ shouted the dirty boy. ‘Help!’
‘You want the constable to come and talk to you?’ asked Kaspar as he held his struggling prey high enough that the boy had to dance on his toes.
The boy ceased struggling. ‘Not really.’
‘Now, answer some questions and I’ll let you go.’
‘Your word?’
‘My word,’ answered Kaspar.
‘Swear by Kalkin,’ said the boy.
‘I swear by the God of Thieves, Liars and Tricksters I’ll let you go when you’ve answered my questions.’
The boy ceased his struggles, but Kaspar hung on. ‘I’m looking for a boy, about your age I’m thinking.’
The young thief fixed his eye on Kaspar and said with a wary tone, ‘Just what sort of boy did you have in mind?’
‘Not a sort, but a particular boy, named Jorgen. If he came through here, it would have been a year or so ago.’
The boy relaxed. ‘I know him. I mean, I knew him. Blond, sunburned, farm lad; came from the north, looking for his pa, he said. Nearly starved to death, but we taught him a thing or two. He stayed with us for a while. Not much good with thievery, but a stand-up boy in a fight. He could hold his own.’
‘“Us”?’ asked Kaspar.
‘The boys and me, my mates. We all hang together.’
A pair of townsmen turned into the alley, so Kaspar put the boy down, but held tight to his arm. ‘Where did he go?’
‘South, down to Kadera. The Raj is fighting down there and that’s where Jorgen’s pa went.’
‘Did Jorgen’s mother come after him?’ Kaspar described Jojanna, then released the boy’s arm.
‘No. Never saw her,’ said the boy; then before Kaspar could react he darted off.
Kaspar took a deep breath, then turned back towards the market. He’d look to a good night’s rest, for tomorrow he would be moving south again.
Another week saw Kaspar leaving the relative prosperity of what, he had learned, was now being called the Kingdom of Muboya. And the young Raj had taken the title Maharajah, or ‘great king’. Again he was riding through a war zone, and several times he had been stopped and questioned. This time, he found little hindrance because at each stop he simply stated he was seeking out General Alenburga. His obvious wealth, fine clothing and fit horse, marked him as ‘someone important’, and he was motioned on without further question.
The village, he was told, was called Timbe, and it had been overrun three times, twice by the forces of Muboya. It was a half-day’s