Shards of a Broken Crown

Dash blew out a long breath. “So that’s it, then. Mockers.”

The young woman glanced at the old man, who motioned with his good hand for her to come close. He whispered in her ear, and she said, “Why do you think us thieves, Puppy?”

“Because smugglers would have cut my throat and been on their way, and Duko’s guards would have had me under questioning up there.” He pointed upward. “You’ve separated me from my companions, which means you’re trying to find conflicts in our stories, and one of my companions brought you down on us; Reese seems more likely to be a thief than anything else I can imagine.” Glancing around the room, he said, “So this is what’s left of Mother’s?”

The old man said something, and the woman said, “What do you know of Mother’s? You’re not one of us.”

“My grandfather,” said Dash, knowing that at this point he had nothing to lose and everything to gain with the truth.

“What about him? Who is your grandfather?”

“Was,” said Dash. “My grandfather was Jimmy the Hand.”

Several people spoke at once, and the old man signaled for silence. The young woman leaned over and then repeated his words. “Your name?”

“Dashel Jamison. My father is Arutha, Duke of Krondor.”

Without waiting, the girl said, “So you’ve come spying for the King.”

Dash attempted a grin. “Well, the Prince, actually. But yes, I’m here to scout out Duko’s defenses, so that Patrick can retake Krondor.”

The old man waved a badly burned hand and spoke to the woman, who said, “Come closer, Puppy.”

Dash did as he was told and came to stand before the old man and the young woman. The old man’s one good eye studied Dash’s face for a long moment as the woman held a lantern close to it, so every detail could be seen.

Finally, the old man spoke loud enough for all to hear. “Leave us.” His voice sounded close to ruined, dry gravel being scraped, a strangled sound.

Everyone but the woman did, instantly and without hesitation, and the old man said, “Well, then. It is a small world, boy.”

Dash leaned over to study the burned features before him and he said, “Do I know you, sir?”

“No,” said the old man slowly, as if every word hurt. “But I know you by name and lineage, Dashel, son of Arutha.”

“Am I to know your name, sir?”

The woman glanced at the old man, but his one good eye stayed fastened upon Dash. “I’m your great-uncle, boy, that’s who I am. I’m the Upright Man.”

• Chapter Five • Confrontations

ARUTHA FROWNED.

Pug stood at the door studying the Duke of Krondor a moment, before he said softly, “May I speak with you a moment?”

Arutha glanced upward and waved him in. “Grandfather. Please.”

“You appear distracted,” said Pug, sitting in a chair across a large oak table Arutha used for work.

“I was.”

“Jimmy and Dash?”

Arutha nodded as he looked out a window at the warm spring afternoon. His eyes narrowed. They were deep sunk and had dark bags underneath, revealing the lack of sleep that had plagued him since sending his sons into harm’s way. There was grey in Arutha’s hair; Pug hadn’t seen so much just a month before.

Arutha looked at Pug and said, “You needed to see me?”

“We have a problem.”

Arutha nodded. “We have many. Which particular one are we discussing?”

“Patrick.”

Arutha stood and moved around the table to the door and glanced through. A pair of clerks outside were hunched over documents, reviewing reports and requests for supplies, lost in their work.

Arutha closed the door. He returned to his seat and said, “What do you propose?”

“I propose you send a message to the King.”

“And?” Arutha looked directly into the magician’s eyes.

“I think we need another commander in the West.”

Arutha sighed, and in that moment Pug could hear the fatigue, stress, worry, and doubt in the man, expressed in as eloquent a fashion as if an orator had spoken for an hour. Pug instantly knew the outcome of this discussion before Arutha said another word. Yet he allowed the Duke to continue. “History teaches us that we often do not get the best men for a particular job. It also teaches us that if the rest of us do ours, we’ll somehow manage.”

Pug leaned forward and said, “We are this close” – he held forefinger and thumb apart a scant portion of an inch – “to war with Great Kesh. Don’t you think it proper to finish the one we have before we start another?”

“What I think is immaterial,” said Arutha. “I counsel the Prince, but it’s his realm. I’m only allowed to manage it for him.”

Pug remained silent and stared at Arutha a long moment.

Suddenly Arutha allowed his temper to get the better of him, slamming his hand down on the table. “I am not my father, damn it!”

Pug remained silent for another moment, then said, “I never said you were …or that you should be.”

“No, but you were thinking, ‘How would James have dealt with this?’ “

Pug said, “It was your mother that read minds, Arutha, not I.”

Arutha leaned forward. “You’re my grandfather, yet I hardly know you.” He glanced upward toward the ceiling, as if collecting his thoughts, then said, “And that means you hardly know me.”

“You were raised on the other side of the Kingdom, Arutha. We saw each other from time to time …”

Arutha said, “It’s difficult growing up surrounded on all sides by legends. Did you know that?”

Pug shrugged. “I am not sure.”

Arutha said, “My father was ‘Jimmy the Hand,’ the thief who became the most powerful noble in the Kingdom. I was named for the man who is almost unarguably the most brilliant ruler the Western Realm has known.

“The King and I have discussed what it’s like to be the sons of such men, on several occasions.” He pointed his finger at the magician and said, “And you … you look like my son. You look younger now than you did when I was a child. You’re turning into a figure of mystery and fear, Grandfather. ‘Pug, the Eternal Sorcerer!’ The man who saved us during the Riftwar.”

Arutha stopped, weighed his words, and said, “Borric, before he became King, once told me that our roles would be far different than our fathers'. Arutha had been thrust into command in Crydee, a situation demanding action without hesitation, without doubt.

“Father was the brash boy who saved Arutha, then became his most trusted adviser and friend. Between the two of them there was always an answer.”

Pug laughed, and it wasn’t a mocking laugh. “I’m sure they would argue they had their share of doubts and mistakes, Arutha.”

“Perhaps, but the results were there. As a child I grew up hearing the stories in Rillanon, tales told to entertain the eastern nobles who had never seen Krondor, let alone the Far Coast. How Prince Arutha had saved Crydee from the Tsurani host, and had journeyed to Krondor where he found Princess Anita. How father had helped smuggle them both from the city, then later helped get Earl Kasumi to see the King.”

Arutha became more reflective. “I heard the story of the renegade moredhel, and the rogue magician from Kelewan, and I was told of the attack on the Tear of the Gods. I heard of the Crawler and his attempt to take over the Mockers, and the other stories of Father’s more reckless youth.” He looked at Pug. “I wasn’t a noble reading dry reports, but a boy hearing tales from his father.”

Pug said, “What are you telling me? That you don’t feel equal to the task?”

“No man can be equal to the task of putting the Kingdom right, Grandfather.” He narrowed his gaze. “Not even you.”

Pug took a deep breath, then relaxed. “So Patrick won’t give up Stardock?”

“He wants it all back, Grandfather. He wants this city rebuilt in his lifetime to a glory beyond what it was before. He wants Kesh completely out of the vale. He wants the Bitter Sea cleared of Quegan raiders and Keshian pirates, and when Borric finally dies, Patrick wants to go to Rillanon to take the Crown, to be known as the greatest Prince in the history of the West.”

Softly Pug said, “Save us from monarchs with vanity.”

“Not vanity, Pug. Fear.”

Pug nodded. “Young men often fear failure.”

“I understand his fear,” said Arutha. “Maybe if I had been given a different name, George or Harry, Jack or Robert, but no; I was named for the man Father admired above all others.”

“Prince Arutha was a very admirable man. Of all the men I’ve known, he was among the most gifted.”

“A fact of which I’m painfully aware.” Arutha sat back, as if seeking some comfort. “if Arutha were still Prince, and Father still Duke, perhaps Patrick’s dreams of returned glory would prove possible. As it is today …”

Pug said, “What?”

“We are lesser men.”

Pug’s expression turned dark. “You are tired. You are tired and you are worried about the boys.” He stood. “And about Patrick and the Kingdom and everything there is in this life to be worried and tired about.” He leaned over the desk and said, “But know this: you are able. And as long as you’re my grandson, I will not let you forget that. The boys are my great-grandsons. Gamina may not have been the daughter of my body, but she was the daughter of my heart, and I love all her children and grandchildren none the less for this.” He reached across the table and put his hand on Arutha’s shoulder. “Especially you.”

Moisture came unbidden to Arutha’s eyes. “Me?”

Softly Pug said, “You may not be as much like your father as you would wish, but you are more like your mother than you’ll ever know.” He removed his hand and turned to go. “I’ll leave you. Rest, and dine with me tonight when you’ve had a chance to refresh yourself.” He reached the door and said, “Try not to worry too much about the boys. I am sure they are safe.”

He opened the door and left, closing it behind him. Arutha, Duke of Krondor, sat silently and thought about what his grandfather had just said to him. At last he allowed himself the luxury of a long sigh, then turned to the work still before him. Perhaps he would take the opportunity to rest a bit before supper that evening. And as he regarded the report on top of the pile, he thought, The boys are able. Grandfather is most likely right, and the boys are safe.

Jimmy’s head snapped backward as the soldier stepped through the blow. Jimmy’s eyes watered from the pain and his vision turned red for a moment. His knees wobbled and he felt himself start to go, but the other two guards who held him kept him upright.

“All right,” said the interrogator, speaking the King’s Tongue with a very heavy accent. “Again.” He paused. “Let’s start again. Why were you sneaking into Krondor?”

Malar was held by another two soldiers. His nose bled and his right eye was puffy, as he had stood his turn at interrogation. Jimmy was now very pleased that he and Dash had told him nothing.

Jimmy shook his head to clear it, and said, “I told you. I’m a mercenary from the East, and this is my dog robber. I’m looking for work.”

“Wrong answer,” said the man, and he struck Jimmy again. Jimmy collapsed, unable to make his legs obey, and was held entirely by the two soldiers.

Jimmy spat blood, and through rapidly swelling lips said, “What do you want me to say?”

“Every mercenary outside the walls has been told to stay out of Krondor. If you were a freebooter you would know this.” He nodded and the two men moved to the wall, and let Jimmy slump to the floor. The man knelt, putting his own face down near Jimmy’s.

The soldier was a brutish-looking fellow, with a beetle brow and thick black hair that hung down over his shoulders. He sported a short black beard, and at this close quarter, Jimmy could see he bore an assortment of scars on his neck and shoulders. The man grabbed Jimmy’s hair and said, “Either you’re a fool or you’re a spy. Which is it?”

Jimmy paused for dramatic effect, then slowly he said, “I came looking for my brother.”

The soldier stood and motioned and the two other soldiers picked Jimmy up and moved him to a chair. They were gathered in a large bedroom of an inn, converted to a cell of sorts.

Jimmy and Malar had been dragged there the night before and the interrogation had started at once. For an hour they had been routinely questioned and beaten, then left alone. Just as they were able to relax, the door would open and the questioning would begin again. Jimmy knew the oddly timed schedule was deliberate, designed to unnerve them. Despite the overt brutality of the man questioning them, the entire process was very well thought out and subtle. It was designed to disorient him without rendering him incoherent. It was a methodical 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 and Jimmy squinted. “We must walk, I’m sorry to say. Horses are a staple of our current diet.” He glanced at Jimmy. “Though a few are maintained to carry messages.”

They walked along a busy street. While almost every man was armed and obviously a warrior, a few were workers and a few women were seen here and there. Everyone seemed occupied with some task, and none of the usual idle habitues of the city were in evidence: the drunks, prostitutes, confidence men, and beggars. Also noticeable by their absence, the street urchins who flocked in rowdy gangs through the poor and workers’ quarters of the city.

“If I may ask,” said Jimmy, “where’s my dog robber?”

“He’s comfortable,” said the man. “Don’t worry about him.”

The man who was walking beside him said, “Jimmy, if you are a spy, you’re most likely wondering what it is we’re doing here in Krondor.”

Jimmy said, “It is a question that has crossed my mind. I may not be a spy, but it’s obvious there’s more going on here than a simple staging for a spring offensive. You’ve got soldiers on the outside of the walls anxious to enlist and you’re not enlisting them. You have a great deal of work underway, but some of it” – he pointed to a nearby building where two soldiers were hanging a new door – “clearly not military in nature. It’s as if you’ve come to Krondor to stay.”

The man smiled, and again Jimmy was reminded of the old Prince, for this man had the same cryptic half-smile Arutha had evidenced when amused. “Good observation. Yes, we’re not planning on leaving anytime soon.”

Jimmy nodded, his head still ringing from the beating he had taken. He said, “But you’re turning away swords who will help you hang on to this place when the Prince’s army returns.”

“How many spies are among that band outside?” asked the man.

“I couldn’t begin to guess.” Jimmy shrugged. “Not many, I wager.”

“Why?”

“Because no man of the Kingdom can pass himself off as one of your own. We don’t speak your language.”

“Ah,” said the officer, “but you have. Some of your countrymen have been among us for years. We first became of aware of a group calling itself ‘Calis’s Crimson Eagles’ before the fall of Maharta. We now know they were Kingdom agents. We know they were with us from time to time.” They reached the walls and the man motioned for Jimmy to climb with him up a flight of stairs to the ramparts.

As they climbed, the man continued. “We who were commanding never had a clear picture of this campaign. To understand what we became, you need to know what we were before.” They reached the ramparts, and the man motioned for Jimmy to follow. They reached a section of the wall freshly refurbished, the stones set firmly in place with new mortar. The man motioned beyond the wall, toward the east. “Out there is a nation, your Kingdom.” He turned to regard Jimmy. “In my homeland we have no such nations. There were city-states, ruled by men who were petty or noble, who were acquisitive or generous, wise or foolish. But no ruler’s power existed beyond a week’s ride by his soldiers.” He motioned toward Jimmy. “You people have this thing in your mind. This idea of a nation. It is an idea I am most intrigued by, even captivated by. The notion that men who live more than a month’s travel from a ruler swear to that ruler, are willing to die for that ruler—” He stopped himself. “No, not the ruler, this nation. Now this is an amazing idea.

“I have spent much time this winter speaking with those among our prisoners who could teach me, men and women of some education or experience, who would help me understand this concept of this Kingdom.” He shook his head. “It is a grand thing, this nation of yours.”