Krondor: The Assassins

Reaching a point another ten feet further, Limm encountered a grate, almost bumping into it, so focused was he on the sound of those who came behind. He crouched, making himself as small a target as possible, in case a mirrored light was shone into the tunnel.

Within moments he heard voices, at first only the sound of indistinguishable words. Then he heard a man say, ‘—can’t have gone too far. He’s just a kid.’

‘He’s seen us,’ said the leader, and the boy knew full well who the speaker was. He had the image of that man and those who served him etched in his memory, though he had only glimpsed them for a few seconds before turning and fleeing. He didn’t know the man’s name, but he knew his nature. The boy had lived among such men all his life, though he had known only a few who might be this dangerous.

Limm had no illusions about his own abilities; he knew he could never confront such men. He was often full of bravado, but it was a false courage designed to convince those who were stronger that he was just a little more trouble to dispose of than he was in actuality. His willingness to look death in the eye had saved the boy’s neck on more than one occasion; but he was also nobody’s fool: Limm knew that these men wouldn’t give him the time to even try a bluff. They would kill him without hesitation, because he could link them to a horrible crime.

Looking around, the young fugitive saw a trickle of water coming from above. Risking detection, he briefly shone the barest light he could manage above him. The top of the grating didn’t reach the roof of the tunnel, and just the other side of the grate was a passageway running upward.

Without hesitation the youth climbed up on the grate and pushed his free arm through, experience showing him how likely it was that he might pass through such a tiny passage. Praying to Ban-ath that he hadn’t grown too much since the last time he had tried such a stunt, Limm pushed upward and turned. His head went first. Twisting it slightly, he thrust his face forward between the top bar and the stones above. Practice had taught him that his ears would suffer less if not bent backwards as he tried to pull his head through. A rising sense of urgency battled the pain he felt, as he sensed his pursuers closing in. Yet the pain from his cheeks as he slowly pressed through the gap grew more intense. He tasted the salty, iron tang of blood and sweat and he continued to wiggle his head through the gap. Tears flowed freely, yet he held his silence as he cruelly scraped both ears, one against stone and the other against filthy iron. For an instant panic threatened to rise up and overwhelm him as images of him hanging helpless in the grate while his pursuers raced to seize him played vividly in his imagination.

Then his head was past the top bar. He easily snaked his arm through, and he moved his shoulder. Hoping he wouldn’t have to dislocate his joints to get through, the young thief continued. He got his shoulders through and, by exhaling, his chest followed. He held the lantern in his trailing arm and realized it wouldn’t fit through the gap.

Taking a deep breath, the boy let it fall as he twisted the rest of his body through. He was now on the other side of the grate, clinging to it like a ladder as the lantern clattered onto the stones.

‘He’s in there!’ came a shout from close by and a light shone into the tunnel.

Limm held himself poised for a moment, and looked up. The hole above him was barely visible in the faint light hurrying towards him. He shoved upward, slapping his palms against the tunnel walls, keeping his feet firmly on the grate. He pressed hard with both hands on the sides of the vertical shaft. He needed solid hand-holds before he pushed off the grate. He felt around and got his fingers into a deep seam between two stones on one side and had just found another when he felt something touch his bare foot.

Instantly he pushed off with his feet, and heard a voice cursing. ‘Damn all sewer rats!’

Another voice said, ‘We can’t get through there!’

‘But my blade can!’

Summoning all his strength the young thief pulled himself up into the shaft, and in a dangerous move, released his hold on the top of the grate, dropped his hands to his side, and pushed upward. He slapped his palms backwards and braced his back against the wall of the chimney, and pulled his feet up, jamming them acrobatically against the far wall. He heard the scrape of steel on iron as someone shoved a sword through the grating. Limm knew that had he hesitated, he would have been impaled on the point of that long blade.

A voice swore and said, ‘He vanished up that chimney!’

Another voice said, ‘He’s got to come out somewhere on the level above!’

For an instant Limm could feel the shirt on his back move as the material slipped against the wall and his bare feet skidded on the slimy stones. He pressed harder with his feet and prayed he could hold his position. After an instant of downward movement, he stopped.

‘He’s gone!’ shouted one of the men who had been chasing him. ‘If he was going to fall, he’d have been out of there by now!’

The boy recognized the voice of the leader. ‘Head back up to the next level and spread out! There’s a bonus for whoever kills him! I want that rat dead before morning!’

Limm moved upward, one hand, one foot, another hand, another foot, by inches, slipping down an inch for every two he gained. It was slow going and his muscles cried out for a pause, but he pressed on. A cool whiff of air from above told him he was close to the next level of the sewers. He prayed it was a large enough pipe to navigate, as he had no desire to attempt another passage downward and back through that grate.

Reaching the lip of the shaft, he paused, took a deep breath and turned, snatching at the edge. One hand slipped on something thick and sticky, but the other hand held firm. Never one for bathing, nevertheless he looked forward to scrubbing this muck off and finding clean clothing.

Hanging in the silence, the boy waited. He knew it was possible that the men who had pursued him might appear in a few moments. He listened.

Impulsive by nature, the boy had come to learn the dangers of acting rashly in dangerous situations. Seven boys had come to Mother’s, the Mockers’ safe haven, at roughly the same time, within a few weeks of one another. The other six were now dead. Two had died by accident: falling from the rooftops. Three had been hanged as common thieves during crack-downs by the Prince’s magistrates. The last boy had died the previous night, at the hands of the men who now sought Limm, and it was his murder the young thief had witnessed.

The boy let his racing heart calm and his straining lungs recover. He pulled himself up and into the large pipe, and moved off in the darkness, a hand on the right wall. He knew he could negotiate most of the tunnels hereabout blindfolded, but he also knew it only took one wrong turn or missing a side tunnel in passing to become completely lost. There was a central cistern in this quarter of the city, and knowing where he was in relationship to it provided Limm with a navigational aid as good as any map, but only if he kept his wits about him and concentrated.

He inched along, listening to the distant sound of gurgling water, turning his head this way and that to ensure he was hearing the sound coming down the sewer and not a false echo bouncing off nearby stones. While he moved blindly, he thought about the madness that had come to the city in recent weeks.

At first it had seemed like a minor problem: a new rival gang, like others that had shown up from time to time. Usually a visit from the Mockers’ bashers, or a tip to the sheriff’s men, and the problem went away.

This time, it had been different.

A new gang showed up on the docks, a large number of Keshian thugs among them. That alone wasn’t worth notice; Krondor was a major port of trade with Kesh. What made this group unusual was their indifference to the threat posed by the Mockers. They acted in a provocative fashion, openly moving cargo into and out of the city, bribing officials and daring the Mockers to interfere with them. They seemed to be inviting a confrontation.

At last the Mockers had acted, and it had been a disaster. Eleven of the most feared bashers – the enforcers among the Guild of Thieves – had been lured into a warehouse at the end of a semi-deserted dock. They had been trapped inside and the building set afire, killing all eleven. From that moment on, warfare had erupted deep in Krondor’s underworld.

The Mockers had been driven to ground, and the invaders, working for someone known only as the Crawler, had also suffered, as the Prince of Krondor had acted to restore order to his city.

Rumour had it some men dressed as Nighthawks – members of the Guild of Assassins – had been seen weeks before in the sewer, bait to bring the Prince’s army in after them, with the final destruction of the Mockers as the apparent goal. It was a foregone conclusion that had the Prince’s guard entered the sewers in sufficient numbers, everyone found down below the streets – assassins, false Nighthawks, or Mockers – all would be routed out or captured. It was a clever plan, but it had come to naught.

Squire James, once Jimmy the Hand of the Mockers, had foiled that ruse, before vanishing into the night on a mission for the Prince. Then the Prince had mustered his army and moved out – and again the Crawler had struck.

Since then, the two sides had stayed holed up, the Mockers at Mother’s, their well-disguised headquarters, and the Crawler’s men at an unknown hideout in the north docks area. Those sent to pinpoint the exact location of the Crawler’s headquarters failed to return.

The sewers had become a no-man’s land, with few daring to come and go unless driven by the greatest need. Limm would now be lying low, safe at Mother’s, save for two things: a terrible rumour, and a message from an old friend. Either the rumour or the message alone would have made Limm huddle in a corner at the Mockers’ hideout, but the combination of the two had forced him to act.

Mockers had few friends; the loyalty between thieves was rarely engendered by affection or comity, but from a greater distrust of those outside the Guild and fear of one another. Strength or wit earned one a place in the Brotherhood of Thieves.

But occasionally a friendship was struck, a bond deeper than common need, and those few friends were worth a bit more risk. Limm counted fewer than a handful of people for whom he would take any risk, let alone at such a high price should he be caught, but two of them were in need now, and had to be told of the rumour.

Something moved in the darkness ahead and Limm froze. He waited, listening for anything out of the ordinary. The sewer was far from silent, with a constant background noise made up of the distant rumble of water rushing through the large culvert below that took the city’s refuse out past the harbour mouth, a thousand drips, the scrabble of rats and other vermin and their squeaky challenges.

Wishing he had a light of any sort, Limm waited. Patience in one his age was rare outside the Mockers, but a rash thief was a dead thief. Limm earned his keep in the Mockers by being among the most adroit pickpockets in Krondor, and his ability to calmly move among the throng in the market or down the busy streets without attracting attention had set him high in the leadership’s estimation. Most boys his age were still working the streets in packs, urchins who provided distraction while other Mockers lifted goods from carts, or deflected attention from a fleeing thief.

Limm’s patience was rewarded, as the faint echo of a boot moving on stone reached him. A short distance ahead, two large culverts joined in a wade. He would have to cross through the slowly-flowing sewage to reach the other side.

It was a good place to wait, thought the boy thief. The sound of him moving through the water would alert anyone nearby and they’d be on him like hounds on a hare.

Limm considered his options. There was no way around that intersection. He could return the way he came, but that would cost him hours of moving through the dangerous sewers under the city. He could avoid crossing the transverse sewer by skirting around the corner, hugging the wall to avoid being seen, and moving down that passage to his right. He would have to trust that darkness would shelter him and he could remain silent enough to avoid detection. Once away from the intersection, he could be safely on his way.

Limm crept along, gingerly placing one foot ahead of the other, so as to not dislodge anything or step on an object that might betray his whereabouts. Fighting the impulse to hurry, he kept his breathing under control and willed himself to keep moving.

Step by step he approached the intersection of the two passages, and as he reached the corner at which he would turn, he heard another sound. A small scrape of metal against stone, as if a scabbard or sword blade had ever-so-lightly touched a wall. He froze.

Even in the dark, Limm kept his eyes closed. He didn’t know why, but shutting his eyes helped his other senses. He had wondered at this in the past, and finally stopped trying to figure out why it was so. He just knew that if he spent any energy trying to see, even in the pitch black, his hearing and sense of touch suffered.

After a long, silent, motionless period, Limm heard a rush of water heading towards him. Someone, a shopkeeper or city worker, must have purged a cistern or opened one of the smaller sluices that fed the sewer. The slight noise was the only mask he needed to resume moving, and he was quickly around the corner.

Limm hurried, still cautious but now feeling the need to put some distance between himself and whoever guarded the intersection behind him. He silently counted his steps and when one hundred had passed he opened his eyes.

As he expected, ahead was a faint dot of light, which he knew was a reflection coming down from an open grating in the West Market Square. There wasn’t enough light by which to see well, but it was a point of reference and confirmed what he already knew about his whereabouts.

He moved quickly and reached the crossway that ran parallel to the one he had been travelling before encountering the silent guard. He eased into the foul sewage and crossed the now-moving stream of refuse, reaching the opposite walkway without making much sound.

Limm was quickly up and on his way again. He knew where his friends were holed up and knew that it was a relatively safe place, but given the time and circumstances, nothing was truly safe any more. What had once been called the other Thieves’ Highway, the rooftops of Krondor, was now as much an open war zone as the sewers. The citizens of the city of Krondor might be blissfully ignorant of this silent warfare above their heads and below their feet, but Limm knew that if he didn’t encounter the Crawler’s men along the way, he risked the Prince’s soldiers, or murderers posing as Nighthawks. No man unknown to him was trustworthy, and a few whom he knew by name could be trusted only so far these days.

Limm stopped and felt the wall to his left. Despite moving by his own silent count, he discovered with satisfaction that he had been less than a foot off estimating the whereabouts of the iron rungs in the wall. He started to climb. Still blind, he felt himself enter a stone chimney, and quickly knew he was at the floor of a cellar. He reached up and felt the latch. An experimental tug showed it to be bolted from the other side.

He knocked: twice rapidly, then a pause, then twice again, another pause and a final, single knock. He waited, counting to ten, then repeated the pattern in reverse order, one knock, pause, two knocks, pause, and two again. The bolt slid open.

The trap swung upward, but the room above was as dark as the sewer below. Whoever was waiting preferred to wait unseen.

As Limm cleared the floor of the room, rough hands hauled him through, the trap shutting quickly behind him. A feminine voice whispered, ‘What are you doing here?’

Limm sat down heavily upon the stone floor, fatigue sweeping over him. ‘Running for my life,’ he said softly. Catching his breath, he continued. ‘I saw Sweet Jackie killed last night. Ugly basher working for the Crawler.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Cracked his neck like you’d break a chicken’s, while his mates stood watching. Didn’t even give Jackie a chance to beg or say a prayer, nothing. Just put him out of the way like a cockroach.’ He was close to weeping as he told them – and as relief at being relatively safe for the first time in hours washed over him. ‘But that’s not the worst of it.’

A lantern was lit by a large man with a grey beard. His narrow gaze communicated volumes: Limm had better have compelling reasons for violating a trust and coming to this hideout. ‘What else?’ he asked.

‘The Upright Man is dead.’

Ethan Graves, one-time leader of the Mockers’ bashers, for a time a brother of the Order of Ishap, and now fugitive from every court of justice in the Kingdom, took a moment to accept the news.

The woman, named Kat, was half her companion’s age, and an old friend to Limm. She asked, ‘How?’

‘Murdered, is the rumour,’ said Limm. ‘No one is saying for certain, but it’s held without doubt he’s dead.’

Graves sat down at a small table, testing the construction of the small wooden chair with his large frame. ‘How would anyone know?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘No one knows who he is … was.’

Limm said, ‘Here’s what I know. The Daymaster was still working when I came to Mother’s last night, and he was holed up in the back with Mick Giffen, Reg deVrise, and Phil the Fingers.’

Graves and Kat exchanged glances. Those named were the most senior thieves in the Mockers. Giffen had succeeded Graves as leader of the bashers, deVrise oversaw those who burgled and fenced goods, and Phil was in charge of pickpockets, smash-and-grab gangs, and the urchins who ran the streets of Krondor.

Limm continued. ‘The Nightmaster never showed. Word went out and we started looking for him. Just before dawn, we heard they found the Nightmaster floating in the sewers near the dock. His head was all bashed in.’

Kat almost gasped. ‘No one would dare touch him.’

Graves said, ‘No one in the know. But someone who didn’t care about the Mockers’ wrath would.’

‘Here’s the dicey part,’ said Limm. ‘The Daymaster says the Nightmaster was supposed to meet with the Upright Man. Now, as I understand things, if the Upright Man is supposed to meet with you, and you don’t show, he’s got ways of sending word to the Daymaster or Nightmaster. Well, no word was heard. So the Daymaster sends one of the boys, Timmy Bascolm, if you remember him—’ they nodded ‘—and Timmy turns up dead an hour later.

‘So the Daymaster heads out with a bunch of bashers and an hour later they come running back to Mother’s and hole up. Nobody’s saying anything, but word spreads: the Upright Man’s gone.’

Graves was silent for a minute, then said, ‘He must be dead. There’s no other explanation for this.’

‘And there are bully boys to make a strong man faint chasing through the sewers, last night, so Jackie and I figure the hunt is on and our best bet is to lie low somewhere. We got run to ground last night near Five Points—’ both Kat and Graves knew the region of the city sewers by that name ‘—so after they killed Jackie, I figured my best bet was to get here, with you.’

Graves said, ‘You want to leave Krondor?’

The boy said, ‘If you’ll take me. There’s a war on, for truth, and I’m the last of my band alive. If the Upright Man is dead, all bets are off. You know the rules. If the Upright Man isn’t here, it’s every man for himself and make what deal you can.’

Graves nodded. ‘I know the rules.’ His voice lacked the rough, commanding edge Limm had come to know as a boy in the Mockers, when Graves was first among the bashers. Still, Graves had saved Limm several times, from freebooting thugs and the Prince’s men alike. Limm would do whatever Graves said.

After a moment of reflection, Graves spoke. ‘You stay here, boy. No one in the Guild knows you’ve helped Kat and me, and the truth is, I’m fond of you. You were always a good lad, as far as that goes. Too full of yourself, but what boy isn’t at times?’ He shook his head in regret. ‘Out there it’ll be every hand against us – Mockers, Prince’s men, or the Crawler’s. I’ve got a few friends left, but if the blood is running in the sewers, who knows how long I can count on them?’

‘But everyone else thinks you’ve escaped!’ objected Limm. ‘Just me and Jackie knew, ’cause you told us so we could fetch you food. Those notes you sent out, to the Temple, and some of your friends, to that magician you travelled with …’ He waved his hand as if trying to recall the name.

‘Owyn,’ Graves supplied.

‘Owyn,’ repeated Limm. ‘Word spread through the city you’d fled to Kesh. I know at least a dozen bashers were sent outside the walls to track you down.’

Graves nodded. ‘And an equal number of monks from the Temple, too, I warrant.’ He sighed. ‘That was the plan. Lie low here while they looked for us out there.’

Kat, who had remained silent throughout, said, ‘It was a good plan, Graves.’

Limm nodded.

Graves said, ‘I figured another week or ten days, and they’d come back, each thinking some other had just missed sight of us, then we’d walk down to the docks one night, get on a ship, and sail off to Durbin, just another merchant and his daughter.’

‘Wife!’ said Kat, angrily.

Limm grinned.

Graves shrugged and spread his hands in a sign of surrender. ‘Young wife,’ he said.

She put her arms around his neck and said, ‘Wife,’ softly.

Limm said, ‘Well, you play the parts well enough, but right now getting to the docks is no small order.’ He glanced around the cellar. ‘What about just going out the door, up there?’ He pointed to the ceiling.

Graves said, ‘Sealed off. That’s why I built this place as a hideout. The building upstairs is abandoned, roof beams collapsed. The man who owned it died, so it belongs to the Prince for back taxes. Fixing up old buildings is not very high on the Prince’s list of things to do, it seems.’

Limm nodded in approval of the scheme. ‘Well, how long do you think we should stay?’

‘You,’ said Graves, rising, ‘are staying in the Kingdom. You’re young enough to make something of yourself, boy. Get off the dodgy path and find a master. Apprentice in a craft or become a serving man.’

‘Honest work?’ said Limm, as he jumped to his feet. ‘When did a Mocker seek honest work?’

Graves pointed a finger at him. ‘Jimmy did.’

‘Jimmy the Hand,’ agreed Kat. ‘He found honest work.’

‘He saved the Prince’s life!’ objected Limm. ‘He was made a member of the court. And there’s a death mark on his head! He couldn’t return to the Mockers if he begged.’

Graves said, ‘If the Upright Man is dead, that mark is erased.’

Softly Limm asked, ‘What should I do?’

Graves said, ‘Lie low for a while, until things get quiet, then leave the city. There’s a man named Tuscobar, once a trader from Rodez. He has a shop in a town called Biscart, two days’ fast walk up the coast. He owes me a favour. He also has no sons, so there is no one to apprentice for him. Go there and ask him to take you to service. If he objects, just tell him “Graves clears all debts if you do this.” He’ll understand what it means.’

‘What does he do?’ asked Limm.

‘He sells cloth. He makes a good living, as he sells to nobles for their daughters.’

Limm’s expression showed he was less than taken with the notion. ‘I’d rather go to Durbin and take my chances with you. What are you going to do there?’

‘Turn honest,’ said Graves. ‘I have some gold. Kat and I are going to open an inn.’

‘An inn,’ said Limm, his eyes alight. ‘I like inns.’ He got down on his knees in an overly dramatic pleading. ‘Let me come! Please! I can do many things in an inn. I can tend fires, and show customers to their rooms. I can haul water and I can mark the best purses for cutting.’