Silverthorn. Raymond E. Feist

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      Close inspection would have revealed that the men at the tables barely touched their ale. While rough in appearance, they didn’t have the air of workers from the docks and sailors fresh in from sea voyages. They all possessed a certain hard-eyed look, and their scars were earned in past battles rather than tavern brawls. All were members of Gardan’s company of Household Guard, some of the most seasoned veterans of the Armies of the West during the Riftwar. In the kitchen five new cooks and apprentices worked. Upstairs, in the room closest to the head of the stairway, Arutha, Gardan, and five soldiers waited patiently. In total, Arutha had placed twenty-four men in the inn. Arutha’s men were the only ones present, as the last local had left when the storm commenced.

      In the corner farthest from the door, Jimmy the Hand waited. Something had troubled him all day, though he couldn’t put his finger on it. But he knew one thing: if he himself had entered this room this night, his experience-bred caution would have warned him away. He hoped the Nighthawks’ agent wasn’t as perceptive. Something here just wasn’t right.

      Jimmy sat back and absently nibbled at the cheese, pondering what was askew. It was an hour after sundown, and still no sign of anyone who might be from the Nighthawks. Jimmy had come straight from the temple, making sure he had been seen by several beggars who knew him well. If any in Krondor wished to find him, word of his whereabouts could be purchased easily and cheaply.

      The front door opened and two men came in from the rain, shaking water from their cloaks. Both appeared to be fighting men, perhaps bravos who had earned a fair purse of silver protecting some merchant’s caravans. They wore similar attire: leather armour, calf-length boots, broadswords at their sides, and shields slung over their backs under the protective cloaks.

      The taller fellow, with a grey streak through his dark hair, ordered ales. The other, a thin blond man, looked about the room. Something in the way his eyes narrowed alarmed Jimmy: he also sensed something different in the inn. He spoke softly to his companion. The man with the grey lock nodded, then took the ales presented by the barman. Paying with coppers, the two men moved to the only available table, the one next to Jimmy’s.

      The man with the grey lock turned towards Jimmy and said, ‘Lad, is this inn always so sombre?’ Jimmy then realized what the problem had been all day. In their waiting, the guards had fallen into the soldier’s habit of speaking softly. The room was free of the usual common-room din.

      Jimmy held his forefinger before his lips and whispered, ‘It is the singer.’ The man turned his head and listened to Laurie for a moment. Laurie was a gifted performer and was in good voice despite his long day’s work. When he finished, Jimmy banged his ale jack hard upon the table and shouted, ‘Ha! Minstrel, more, more!’ as he tossed a silver coin towards the dais upon which Laurie sat. His outburst was followed a moment later by similar shouting and cheering as the others realized the need of some display. Several other coins were tossed. When Laurie struck up another tune, lively and bawdy, a sound not unlike the normal buzz of conversation returned to the taproom.

      The two strangers settled back into their chairs and listened, occasionally speaking to each other. They visibly relaxed as the mood in the room shifted to resemble what they had expected. Jimmy sat for a while, watching the two men at the next table. Something about these two was out of place, something that nagged at him as had the false note in the common room only moments before.

      The door opened again and another man entered. He looked around the room as he shook water from his hooded great cloak, but he didn’t remove the voluminous covering or lower the cowl. He spied Jimmy and crossed to his table. Without waiting for invitation, he pulled out a chair and sat. In hushed tones he said, ‘Have you a name?’

      Jimmy nodded and leaned forward as if to speak. As he did so, four facts suddenly struck him. The men at the next table, despite their casual appearance, had swords and shields close at hand, needing only an instant to bring them to the ready. They didn’t drink like mercenaries fresh into town after a long caravan; in fact, their drinks were nearly untouched. The man opposite Jimmy had one hand hidden under his cloak, as he had since entering. But most revealing of all, all three men wore large black rings on their left hands, with a hawk device carved in them, one similar to the talisman taken from Laughing Jack’s companion. Jimmy’s mind worked furiously, for he had seen such rings before and understood their use.

      Improvising, Jimmy pulled a parchment out of his boot. He placed it on the table, to the far right of the man, making him stretch awkwardly across himself to reach for it while he kept his right hand hidden. As the man’s hand touched the parchment, Jimmy pulled his dirk out and struck, pinning the man’s hand to the table. The man froze at the sudden attack, then his other hand came from within his cloak, holding a dagger. He slashed at Jimmy as the boy thief fell backwards. Then pain struck the man and he howled in agony. Jimmy, tumbling over his chair, shouted, ‘Nighthawks!’ as he struck the floor.

      The room exploded with activity. Lucas’s sons, both veterans of the Armies of the West, came leaping over the bar, landing on the swordsmen at the table next to Jimmy as they attempted to rise. Jimmy found himself hanging backwards atop the overturned chair and awkwardly tried to pull himself upright. From his position he could see the barmen grappling with the grey-lock man. The other false mercenary had his left hand before his face, his ring to his lips. Jimmy shouted, ‘Poison rings! They have poison rings!’

      Other guards had the hooded man in their grip as he frantically tried to remove his ring from his pinned hand. After another moment he was held tightly by the three men around him, unable to move.

      The grey-lock man kicked out at the barmen, rolled away, leapt up, and dashed towards the door, knocking aside two men surprised by the sudden move. For a moment a clear path to the door appeared as curses filled the room from soldiers attempting to navigate the jumble of tables and chairs. The Nighthawk was nearing the door and freedom when a slender fighter interposed himself. The assassin leapt towards the door. With near-inhuman speed Arutha stepped forward and struck the grey-locked man a blow to the head with his rapier’s hilt. The stunned man teetered for a moment, then collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

      Arutha stood erect and looked about the room. The blond assassin lay with eyes staring blankly upwards, obviously dead. The hooded man’s cloak was thrown back and he was white with pain as the dagger pinning his hand to the table was pulled loose. Three soldiers held him down, though he looked too weak to stand upon his own feet. When the dirk was pulled from the table, he screamed and passed out.

      Jimmy stepped gingerly around the dead man and came up to Arutha. He looked down to where Gardan was removing the other black ring from the man on the floor and then the boy grinned at Arutha. Holding up his hand, he counted two on his fingers.

      The Prince, still flushed from the struggle, smiled and nodded. None of his men appeared wounded and he had two assassins in tow. He said to Gardan, ‘Guard them closely and let no one who is not known to us see them when you take them into the palace. I’ll have no rumours flying around. Lucas and others may be in danger enough when these three turn up missing, should others from the Guild of Death be about. Leave enough of this company to keep up the appearance of normal business until closing, and pay Lucas double the damages, with our thanks.’ Even as he spoke, Gardan’s company was restoring the inn to order, removing the broken table and moving the others about so it would not be noticed missing. ‘Take these two to the rooms I have chosen and be quick about it. We shall begin questioning tonight.’

      Guards blocked a door leading to a remote wing of the palace. The rooms were used only occasionally by guests of minor importance. The wing was a recent construction, being accessible from the main buildings of the palace by a single short hall and a single outside doorway. The outside door was bolted from within and was posted with two guards without, who had orders that absolutely no one, no matter СКАЧАТЬ