Jimmy the Hand by Raymond E. Feist, S. M. Stirling Page B

revealed the
presence of a guard. A Bas-Tyran from his black and gold uniform and
nearly asleep, even standing up and leaning on his halberd, judging
from the way his helmeted head kept nodding off and then jerking up
again. Sleeping standing up seemed to be one of the basic military
skills.
    Jimmy squatted,
waving Flora down too; they were behind a quarter-turn in the
passageway’s meander. Then he dug the small bag he’d
purchased from Asher out of his pouch and unknotted the string. That
was when it occurred to him that he had no idea how much of the stuff
to use. His mouth twisted in exasperation. He’d been thinking
about the wrong thing; how much he’d pay, rather than how much
to use and how long it would last. Too late now.
    He decided to
sneak up on the nodding guard and blow just a pinch into the man’s
face. He’d keep on doing that until the guard collapsed. Jimmy
gave a mental shrug. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to
do. After all, things had gone pretty well so far using trial and
error.
    He turned to
Flora and silently cautioned her to stay put. She nodded and made a
shooing gesture. When he’d turned away Jimmy crossed his eyes
and stuck out his tongue, a gesture he’d never dream of making
to her face; but he hated being told what to do. Especially when it
was his idea to do it in the first place.
    Focus, he
told himself and did so.
    He went forward
swiftly but without hurry, moving on the balls of his bare feet like
a cat. The guard was in the head-nodding phase of his waking doze:
Jimmy took a pinch of the magician’s powder and blew it into
his face just as he jerked it up again. With a loud, pig-like snort,
the guard dropped like a sack of potatoes and the young thief barely
caught the man’s polearm before it, too, crashed to the floor.
    Flora moved up
beside him and the two of them stared at the fallen soldier in
astonishment.
    ‘What did
you use?’ Flora whispered.
    ‘Something
I got from a magician,’ Jimmy told her in a more normal voice.
He snatched the keys from the guard’s belt. ‘Something
I’ve got to get more of. Useful stuff!’ He took the bag
out of his tunic and handed it to her. ‘Here, you keep it. If
someone comes, blow a pinch into his face and make sure you don’t
breathe any of the powder yourself.’ She nodded and put the
small bag inside her bodice. ‘Come on, let’s open that
door.’
    The tiny cell
was pitch-black, until they brought the torch in with them. It was
colder than the corridor outside and smelled of mould and human
waste.
    On the floor was
a thin pallet of filthy straw and on the pallet, beneath a single
ragged blanket, lay a man. His face was waxen pale, eyes and cheeks
deeply sunken and his breathing rasped and gurgled as if each one was
a struggle.
    Flora breathed
an ‘Ooooh’ of sympathy and crouched by the man’s
side. She took one of his hands in hers and immediately began to
chafe it. ‘He’s so cold, Jimmy.’ She turned and
looked up at him. ‘Go and get that guard’s cloak.’
    Jimmy raised his
brows; he hadn’t expected her to start nursing anybody. But if
this was the Prince he’d need to be a lot more active than he
was if they were to get him out of here. He placed the torch in an
iron bracket by the door and went to do as she’d asked.
    When he returned
she said, ‘Let’s get some of that under him. This straw’s
no protection at all from the floor.’
    Jimmy nodded,
but he was dismayed to find the man still unconscious. How were they
going to know they had the right prisoner if he couldn’t tell
them? The young thief had only ever seen the Prince from a distance
and he’d been healthier then, by far, than this man.
    He slipped an
arm under the prisoner’s head and shoulders and heaved, almost
sending him flying, for he weighed nothing at all, as if his body was
made of sticks and air.
    ‘Well, if
we have to carry him we can,’ he muttered.
    ‘But,
Jimmy, he’s so ill,’ Flora said. She tucked the