Shards of a Broken Crown. Raymond E. Feist
approach looking to ferret out mistakes and inconsistencies. Jimmy had fought to concentrate to the limit of his ability to prevent any such lapse; he was attempting to turn the situation to his advantage.
One fear of his was that they already had Dash in custody. If so, the admission he was searching for his brother might dovetail into Dash’s arrest if he was already here. In a way, it was the truth, and being the truth, it would prove far more convincing than the most artfully concocted lie.
“Your brother?” said the man, holding a fist cocked to deliver another blow. “What brother?”
“My younger brother.” Jimmy leaned back in the chair, letting his left arm hang over the chair back, keeping him upright. “We were jumped a few miles from the city by bandits and rode toward Krondor.” He paused for a long moment, then as the interrogator started to menace him with his fist, he blurted, “We got separated. The bandits chased him, so we doubled back and followed after. We dodged the bandits, as they came back our way, so we know they didn’t have him – couldn’t see any leading his horse, and it was a good horse so they’d have kept it.” He swallowed. “Can I have some water?” he croaked.
The man in charge nodded and one of the guards stepped out of the room and returned a moment later with water. Jimmy drank eagerly, then nodded toward Malar. The man who had been questioning Jimmy nodded and the servant was given a cup of water to drink.
“Go on,” instructed the interrogator.
“We checked all the camps outside. No one had seen him.”
“Maybe someone already cut his throat.”
“Not my brother,” said Jimmy.
“How do you know?” asked the interrogator.
“Because I’d know. And because whoever cut his throat would be wearing his boots if he was.”
The interrogator looked down at Jimmy’s feet and nodded. “Good boots.” He motioned to one of the men in the room, who ducked out and returned a moment later holding a sack. He opened the sack and dumped the contents on the floor. The interrogator said, “Are these your brother’s?”
Jimmy looked at the boots. He didn’t need to pick them up. They were identical to Dash’s: the same bootmaker in Rillanon had made them for the brothers. Jimmy said, “In the left one you’ll see the mark of the bootmaker, a small bull’s head.”
The man nodded. “I’ve seen it.”
“Is my brother alive?”
The man nodded. “At least he was until two days ago. That’s when he escaped.”
Jimmy couldn’t help but smile. “Escaped?”
“With three others.” The man studied Jimmy a moment, then said, “Bring them.” He turned and walked out of the room; Jimmy and Malar were hurried after him, a guard on each side.
They were taken to what had been the common room of the inn, and Jimmy finally recognized where he was. He was in what was left of a very palatial inn called the Seven Gems, not too far from the heart of the Merchants’ Quarters. He was a few blocks from Barret’s Coffee House, where most of the major financial business of the Western Realm had been conducted. Glancing around the room, Jimmy decided the inn had survived relatively intact. There was ample smoke damage and all of the tapestries that had decorated the place were gone, but the furniture was intact, and the rooms still able to be locked. He had been questioned in one of the back storage rooms, near the kitchen, and was now being led into the far corner of the commons, where a curtain separated a large booth from the rest of the room.
Sitting in the booth was a trio of men, all clearly military from their dress and manner. The man in the center was looking over a parchment, a report of some sort, Jimmy guessed. The interrogator moved to the front of the table and leaned over, speaking in a soft voice. He glanced up at Jimmy, nodded to the interrogator, who departed, leaving Jimmy standing alone with the three men. They seemed intent upon the paperwork before them, and left Jimmy standing for a long time before the centermost man’s attention returned to him.
“Your name?” asked the man in the center.
“I’m called Jimmy,” he answered.
“Jimmy,” repeated the man, as if testing the sound of the name. He studied Jimmy’s face, and Jimmy studied his.
He was a middle-aged man, probably in his late forties or early fifties. He still looked fit, though what once had been hard muscle had been thinned by hardships on campaign and a cold, hungry winter. He had the look of a fighter, from his greying dark hair tied back to keep it from his brown eyes, to the hard set of a jaw kept clean-shaven. Something about him looked familiar to Jimmy, and suddenly it struck him: in manner and voice the man resembled what he remembered of Prince Arutha from Jimmy’s childhood. There was a no-nonsense hardness to him, a calculating intelligence that would be fatal to underestimate.
The man said, “You are a spy, of that I am almost certain.” He spoke the King’s Tongue, but his accent was slight.
Jimmy said nothing.
“But the issue here is are you a bad spy or a terribly clever one.” He sighed, as if thinking on this. “Your brother, if that is really who he is, was a far better spy than I had thought. I had him under observation, yet he managed to escape. We knew of the sewers under the walls, yet didn’t know of that particular entrance. Once he was in there, he was gone.” The soldier looked at Jimmy, as if measuring him, then said, “I won’t make that mistake again.” He reached for a mug nearby and drank what appeared to be water. Jimmy was impressed by the man’s speech, for even with almost no accent, it was clear he had studied the language, for he spoke with the practiced precision of someone not born to the tongue.
He then said, “I have determined that those boots which you claim belong to your brother are made by a particularly well-regarded cobbler in Rillanon, your nation’s capital. Is this correct?”
Jimmy nodded. “It is.”
“Would it be unreasonable to assume that common mercenaries are not likely to acquire a matching set of such boots unless they are not, in fact, common mercenaries?”
“Not unreasonable at all,” said Jimmy. The man speaking to him motioned to one of his two companions, who left the booth, fetched over a chair, and allowed Jimmy to sit. Jimmy nodded his thanks, then said, “Would it be immodest to claim we are uncommon mercenaries?”
“Not in the least,” said the man. “Though it would smack of insincerity.”
Jimmy said, “I am at your mercy. If I’m a spy or not is of little matter. You can kill me at your whim.”
“True, but murder holds little appeal for me. I’ve seen far too much of it over the last twenty years.” He motioned to the remaining man who sat at his side, and the man rose from his seat and offered Jimmy a mug of water. “I’m sorry we don’t have anything more flavorful, but at least it’s clean. One of the major wells to the north has been cleared and is running fresh again. Your Duke James left nothing behind that provides much comfort.”
Jimmy feigned indifference to hearing his grandfather’s name, This invader was very well informed about things in Krondor and the Kingdom to know about Duke James and Rillanon’s better bootmaker.
“But we manage,” said the man. “Feeding the workers is difficult, but the fishing has been good and there are those willing to sell to us for the little booty we’ve found in Krondor.”
Jimmy was intrigued. He was also wary. This man was apparently unconcerned by what he said, and appeared to be someone of some importance among the invaders.
The man stood and said, “Can you walk?”
Jimmy rose and nodded. “I’ll manage.”
“Good. Then come with me.”
Jimmy followed the man out of the door of the inn. Outside the afternoon sun was brilliant