Jimmy led the girl down toward the warehouse district on the wharves. In his experience he’d discovered that one could usually find an abandoned space or two or more there. Besides, a lot of these places were sparsely patrolled; one or two watchmen to a row and those weren’t usually the most alert of men. Or the most curious.
He kept them to the shadows, which resulted in a lot of tripping on Lorrie’s part. At first he’d been sympathetic, then amused, but now she was beginning to curse and he was worried that she’d attract attention. The watchmen probably would not come looking, but if he and Lorrie forced themselves on them they wouldn’t turn a blind eye.
‘Lorrie,’ he whispered, ‘we have to be quiet.’
‘I can’t see where I’m going!’ she said between her teeth.
Jimmy stuck his tongue in his cheek and took a long, deep breath. He knew better than to get involved with ordinary citizens, they were nothing but trouble, yet here he was dragging one around by the hand. ‘I understand, but could you at least stop swearing? Out loud, I mean.’
‘Oh. Sorry.’
They moved on. He was looking for somewhere run-down, preferably abandoned. But all the warehouses they’d passed so far seemed tightly locked and well tended. Land’s End seemed to be a busy port, for all it was a smaller one than Krondor. This close to Kesh I suppose it would be, Jimmy thought. Then he spotted a likely-looking place. He led the girl to a dark recess between two buildings. ‘I’m going to scout around,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you take a bit of a rest?’
She didn’t say anything for a moment, then, in a highly suspicious voice she asked, ‘Why?’
Nothing but trouble, he thought. ‘Because I think I’ve seen a place where you can sleep for free. But I’ve got better night-sight than you do and I don’t want to drag you over there for nothing. I’ll be right back. I promise.’
‘Oh!’ she said, sounding as if the idea of free lodging had never occurred to her. ‘All right.’
Jimmy gave her shoulder a pat and moved off. The place had stairs to the second storey and he put one foot on the bottom step very lightly, only to have it squeak even when he kept his weight to the inner side of the riser. Going up there would probably make enough noise to wake the dead; he was going to have to find another way up.
After looking around he found a shorter building that backed up to his chosen site; the peak of its roof was just below a single window, and the shorter building was eminently climbable. He tested the route and found the window unlocked. Slipping inside . . .
A nice, long-deserted attic room over the main warehouse. Probably used to store occasional high-value cargo—brandy, say, or spices. It held very little now, a keg or two of what was probably nails, one or two bolts of cheap sacking cloth, some broken furniture and a wealth of dust. Jimmy walked carefully, but the floor was solid oak planks which were neatly pegged and made no noise: that sort of construction lasted forever if it was kept dry, and the roof seemed very sound. The door to the main loft opened inward—but there were crates stacked in front of it, almost touching his chest when he stepped into the doorframe. He gave an experimental shove and found he couldn’t move them. At least not without more noise and effort than he wanted to make. He pushed his knife gently through a crack between two slats, and it chinked dully when it hit the cargo within, but straw and willow-withy padding showed too.
Crockery of some sort, he thought. Damned heavy. Good as having a fortress wall in front of you—you could hear them hours before they cleared the door—and the only other way in is the window.
Doubtless others before him had found the building below to be the perfect route into this warehouse and the owner had moved to block them.
‘Perfect,’ he said, rubbing his hands together.
Lorrie was exactly where he’d left her, sitting with her back against the building.
‘C’mon,’ he said. ‘I’ve found a place to stay.’
She was a game little thing, he had to admit, if far too trusting. I could be a slave-taker, or a brothel agent, or just a freelance rape-and-murder artist. This one is a little lamb far from home.
Once he’d described their route to the window and started to climb she followed him without question or complaint. Once they were in the room he began unrolling one of the bolts of cloth.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked, sneezing at the dust he was raising.
As he’d thought, once you got through the first few layers the cloth was clean and dust-free, though still smelling sour from long storage. ‘Making you a bed,’ he said with a grin.
‘I can’t use that,’ she said, sounding honestly horrified.
‘Of course you can,’ he reassured her. ‘You’re only borrowing it. What harm can you do it by sleeping on it? Besides it’s obviously been here for years, so no one’s missing it.’ When she still hesitated he rolled his eyes and continued, ‘And if you leave it the way we found it no one will ever know.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ Lorrie said. She grabbed the other bolt. ‘Perhaps one day I’ll be able to do a good turn for the man who owns it.’