‘My brother and I will require new garments,’ Jimmy said loftily. He looked at the boy before him and estimated that he was just between his and Larry’s size. ‘I need you to buy us some new things. Trousers, shirts and linen,’ he instructed. ‘Something just too large to fit you for me, and something just too small to fit you for my brother. We’ll have to do without shoes and stockings, I suppose.’ He glanced at Larry who nodded, a supercilious expression on his face. ‘The colours should be muted,’ he went on, sighing at the confused expression on the boy’s face. ‘Nothing red or orange or patterned,’ he explained.
He counted out five small silvers, more than enough for the items. ‘You may keep the change,’ Jimmy said, ensuring that it would be. ‘And if you hurry back, you shall have this.’ He held up two more silver coins.
‘Thank you, sir,’ the boy said, tugging his forelock, and rushed off.
‘Shall we enjoy the steam room while we wait?’
Larry sniffed his arm and made a face. ‘Yes!’ he said fervently.
Clean and dressed, the two of them headed for the Poor Quarter. They looked respectable enough, like apprentices, perhaps, except for their lack of shoes, so it was reasonable to think themselves fairly safe in the respectable parts of town. But under the circumstances they couldn’t make themselves feel safe, a fact never far from their minds.
In the Poor Quarter their new clothes might raise a passing eyebrow, but it would be obvious from their attitude that they belonged and that the first glance wouldn’t be followed by a second.
Ordinarily, that is. But then, under ordinary circumstances there would be street children and beggars everywhere, and not a few whores plying their trade. Now, as the two boys walked along they found the streets nearly deserted. The few people walking about were mostly grown men, their eyes constantly moving, and from them Jimmy and Larry received a great deal of attention. It felt as if they were surrounded by the secret police.
‘I can’t take this,’ Larry said. ‘I keep expectin’ someone to grab my neck. I’m goin’ to the Rest.’
Jimmy shook his head. ‘Not me. I’ve had enough of sewers for one day. I’m for a drink.’
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.