Jimmy the Hand. Raymond E. Feist

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      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, СКАЧАТЬ