Shards of a Broken Crown by Raymond Feist

named Akee with them. If
Pathfinders, ask for Captain Subati. Have either of those men take
you to Owen Greylock or Eric von Darkmoor and tell them everything
you’ve seen so far. Without a name, you’ll be taken for a
Keshian deserter or looter or something, and it might be a long time
before anyone heard your story. And they must know what we’ve
seen.”
    “But what
have we seen?” said Malar, genuinely perplexed.
    “I’m
not sure, which is why we must get inside the city. But whatever it
is, it’s not something we anticipated.”
    “That’s
bad.”
    Jimmy grinned.
“Why do you say that?”
    “Because
the unanticipated is always bad.”
    Jimmy’s
grin broadened. “Always?”
    “Always.
There is no such thing as a pleasant surprise.”
    “I
remember this girl once—”
    “Did she
end up breaking your heart?”
    Jimmy nodded
with a smile now rueful. “That she did.”
    “You see.
If you can anticipate, you can stay beyond harm’s reach.”
    “You sound
like a man of experience,” suggested Jimmy.
    Malar’s
eyes narrowed. “More than most men know, young sir.”
    Jimmy looked
around. The shadows had deepened as the sun had lingered in the west,
and now the sky above was turning a stunning shade of violet as night
approached. “It’s dark enough we won’t be noticed,
I’m thinking.” He led Malar into the rear of the old inn,
having to carefully pick his way across a section of timbers, what
was left from a collapsed doorway and wall section, as well as part
of the ceiling above. The roof was gone, and blackened timbers above
showed starkly against the darkening sky. They moved cautiously, then
Jimmy said, “It’s around here somewhere.”
    He knelt and
looked around. He moved some smaller debris covered in thick soot,
raising a stench of wet charcoal. “Some of the wood is
rotting.”
    Malar said,
“There is a ring of iron there, young sir.”
    “Give me a
hand,” said Jimmy as he cleared the top of the trapdoor.
    As the two men
pulled, Jimmy said, “This used to be the back room at an inn
controlled by the Mockers.”
    “Mockers?”
    “Thieves,”
said Jimmy. “I thought their fame reached into the vale.”
    “The only
thieves with whom I had contact were those who used quill and
parchment, not dagger and guile. Businessmen.”
    Jimmy laughed.
“My brother would agree; he used to work for the worst of the
lot, Rupert Avery.”
    “That’s
a name I have heard, young sir. My late master had cause to curse him
more than once.”
    They got the
trap moved and swung it back, letting it fall. The opening yawned at
them like a black pit. Jimmy said, “I wish we had some light.”
    “You
expect to travel in such gloom?” said Malar, a note of
incredulity in his voice.
    “There is
no light on the brightest day down there.” He found what he was
looking for, the ladder down, and as he swung himself down onto the
topmost rung, he said, “There are lights down there if one but
knows where to look.”
    “If you
know where to look,” Malar muttered under his breath.
    They carefully
descended into the darkness.

    Dash winced, but
not from the cold; rather he flinched at the sound of a lash striking
a man down below. He, Gustaf, Talwin, and a few other men he had come
to know were laboring atop the wall just to the north of Krondor’s
main gate. Dash glanced over at Gustaf, who nodded, indicating
everything was all right. Suddenly they both turned. A man screamed a
few yards off as he lost his footing; in that brief instant, the man
knew with dread certainty he was going to fall and no amount of will
or prayer would keep him alive. His anguish and terror filled the
afternoon air as he toppled sideways and fell to his death on the
cobbles below. Gustaf flinched at the sound of the body striking the
unyielding rock. They were repairing the battlements and the footing
was treacherous, made doubly so by loose stones and constant fog in
the mornings and evenings.
    “Keep your
wits about you,”