Flight of the Nighthawks (26 page)

“I'm surprised the Bakers' Boys aren't all dead,” said Caleb.

“Surprise works wonders,” said Jommy.

“And stupidity. You could have gotten those boys killed, Jommy.”

Jommy lost his grin. “Well, I wasn't expecting a ‘thank you' for saving these two lads, but I didn't expect criticism. Would you rather it had been us instead of them?”

Caleb put his hand up, signaling his surrender. “You're right. I'm sorry. I wasn't there.”

“What do we do now, Caleb?” asked Tad.

“I need to rest for a few more days, but not here. We've put these people in enough danger already. So, we need to find ourselves a place
to hide out.” He ran his hand through his long hair and found it matted with dried blood. “And I need to clean up.”

He sat, trying to catch his breath for a few minutes, then said, “I need to clean up.”

“You said that already,” said Zane.

Caleb nodded. “If they know where we are—”

“They don't,” said Tad. “If they knew where we were, they'd have been here by now.”

“Yes,” said Caleb. “I…you're right.”

Jommy said, “Why don't you lie down again, mate? I'll keep an eye on things.”

Caleb lay down, and within minutes he was asleep.

“Well, then,” said Jommy, “I think this is as good a time as any to ask why so many people want to kill us.” He fixed Tad and Zane with a neutral expression and sat back in the single chair, waiting for an answer.

 

Two more meals came and went before Caleb roused again. The boys had judged the time to be mid-morning sometime when he sat up with a groan, and said, “My head must be broken.”

“Not so's we could see,” answered Jommy. “Wait here.” The older boy stood up and worked his way past Tad and Zane, who were still sitting on the floor, and left the room.

“Where's he going?” Caleb asked.

“Don't know,” answered Zane. “Maybe to piss?”

“You haven't been outside, have you?” asked Caleb as he stood up, using the back of the recently vacated chair as support.

“No,” said Tad. “They've got a chamber pot outside the door.”

The door opened. Jommy entered and set a porcelain bowl on the table. He pulled a folded towel out of it, and handed it to Caleb. He poured water into the bowl from a matching pitcher. “You said you needed to clean up,” he said to Caleb.

Caleb pulled off his blood-spattered shirt and began to wash. Jommy said, “There's fresh clothing for you, too. I'll get 'em.”

Jommy left and returned moments later with a clean shirt and a
new hat. “You seemed to have lost your hat, Caleb, so I asked our host if he could find you a new one.”

“Thanks,” said Caleb. “It'll help hide the mess.”

“Now,” said Zane. “We were talking about what to do next when you passed out last time, Caleb.”

“I'm a little vague on what was said, but if I remember things correctly, you were almost taken by four men, right?”

“That's right,” said Jommy. “And from what these two have told me, we're hip deep in crocs, and the swamp started to rise.”

“What did you tell him?” asked Caleb.

Tad and Zane exchanged glances, but it was Jommy who answered. “Enough to know that I'm either with you to the end or a dead man the second I try to leave the city, Caleb. I'm not sure I understand most of what they said, and I'll leave it to you to fill me in on what you think I should know, but understand something about me, mate: I won't let you down. You've treated me more than square, and you've fed me when all I did was keep these two from being treated like drums at a festival. Now, don't blame the lads too much for telling me; I convinced them that if I was going to get myself killed, then I deserved to know why.”

Tad said, “It's only fair, Caleb.”

Caleb looked at Jommy. “You've brought yourself a lot of danger.”

The boy from Novindus shrugged. “I've been in and out of danger ever since Rolie and me left home. It could easily have been me who died. So, what's a little more danger? I figure you're good blokes, and if I'm going to throw my lot in with someone, it might as well be good blokes.

“So, that's settled. Now, where do we go from here?”

“An inn not far away. I'll need you”—he pointed to Zane—“to go ahead of us. It's not far and you shouldn't have any trouble getting there; if they're still out hunting, our enemies will be looking for three lads, not one. Your dark hair makes you the obvious choice to go—you look the most like a Keshian here. I'll tell you what to say. We'll follow along in a while.”

Zane listened as Caleb gave him instructions. After he had left,
Caleb told Jommy and Tad, “I need to go somewhere before I join you. If I do not arrive at the inn by first light tomorrow, go to the innkeeper and tell him you must leave the city on the first caravan north. Go to the caravanserai, but do not travel with the caravan. It is a code; someone will be there who can take you home quickly. Understood?”

“Where are you going?” asked Tad.

“To see a man about what went wrong last night—”

“Two days ago,” Tad corrected.

“Very well, two days ago,” said Caleb. “Someone knew we were coming, Tad, and we were given a proper thrashing. I'm sorry to lose so many good men, but what I need to discover now is how they knew we were coming and how they knew that you boys would be at the Willows, and if any other mischief has been done while I've been unconscious.”

“Be careful, Caleb,” said Tad. “I don't want to have to tell Mum you're dead.”

Caleb said, “That makes two of us, son. Now, wait for a few minutes and then go where I told Zane to go. Jommy, you first, and Tad, you leave shortly after. If anyone's looking for you, they'll be looking for three boys together, not a single one on some errand. May Ruthia smile on you,” he said, invoking the Goddess of Luck.

“You, too, Caleb,” said Jommy.

After Caleb left, Jommy said to Tad. “You've got yourself a hell of a dad there, mate.”

Tad just nodded.

 

Caleb had gathered his hair on the top of his head and stuck it under his hat. He wore a cheap cloak that hid his leather vest and trousers. He didn't plan on being in public for long, but he didn't want to run the risk of being spotted. Without a corpse to prove he was dead, Varen's men would certainly be on the lookout for him.

He had left the safe house, surprised it was midday—he had lost all track of time since he had entered the sewers two days before. He worked his way through the city, just another outland traveler not
dressed for the Keshian heat, but hardly the first foreigner to insist on wearing such outlandish garb.

Caleb's first stop had been a modest moneylender with a shop on the edge of a minor plaza. After that he visited a swordmaker, where he purchased a new blade. Then he had headed to his present location—an alleyway leading into one of the more unsavory parts of the city.

He had lurked in the shadows for nearly an hour, before what he'd been waiting for appeared: a young boy—but not too young; he had no use for urchins, he needed a youthful, inexperienced thief or beggar

As the youth passed him, Caleb reached out and grabbed his collar. Pulling him backward, he almost lost the boy as he tried to wriggle out of his tunic. Caleb tripped him and then put his boot on the boy's chest.

He was scrawny, with black hair and dark eyes, and his skin could have been the color of cocoa, but it was hard to tell under all the dirt on his face. He wore a simple gray tunic and shorts matching in filthiness, and his feet were bare.

“Mercy, master!” he cried. “I have done you no harm!”

“No,” said Caleb, “and I shall do you none, if you do me one service.”

“Name it, master, and I will serve.”

“How do I know you won't run off the moment I lift my boot?”

“I swear on all the gods, master, and by my grandmother, blessings upon her, and in the name of the Emperor, blessings be upon him!”

Caleb took a coin out of his purse and held it up. The boy's expression instantly turned from terror to overt greed. Caleb removed his foot and the boy was up in a bound. He reached for the coin, but Caleb pulled it away. “After you have served me.”

“Master, but how shall I know that I will be rewarded when the task is done?”

“Shall I take an oath on my grandmother?” asked Caleb.

“No, of course not, but—”

“No argument, Little Lord of Lice,” Caleb answered in idiomatic Keshian. “If you do not do as I ask, then another shall see my gold.” He knew that a single gold piece was more than the boy could steal or beg in half a year.

“What must I do?”

“What is your name?”

“If it pleases you, master, I am called Shabeer.”

“Go hence, Shabeer, and carry a message for me, then return here with an answer.”

“And if the answer displeases you, master?”

“You shall still be rewarded.”

“Then what is the message, and to whom do I carry it?”

“I must meet with whoever speaks for the Ragged Brotherhood. I need to speak with he who may bind the thieves and beggars of Kesh to a bargain. Much gold may be had, though there is equal danger.”

“In matters words of gold and danger, there is someone, master.”

“Then go at once and I will remain here, but know that I have powerful friends. Treachery will bring you death; faithful service will bring you gold.”

“I hear and obey, master,” said the boy, and he scampered off.

Caleb faded back into the shadows and waited.

T
al moved silently through the sewer.

He had no doubt about the authenticity of the message he had received earlier that day from Caleb and had been relieved to discover he was alive. Caleb had relayed messages between him and Kaspar, and now the three of them were to meet.

Tal's only concern was the location of the meeting. He was following a filthy beggar boy named Shabeer through a river of sewage in a huge culvert under the slaughterhouse district of the City of Kesh. “My eyes are bleeding,” said Tal.

“In truth, master?” asked the boy, concerned that if anything went amiss on this journey it would be considered his fault. The other foreign master had been generous beyond imagining and the beggar boy was desperate to keep him happy.

“No, just a manner of speaking.”

“You get used to it, here, master,” said the boy.

“How long does that take?”

“A year, two maybe.”

Tal would have laughed, but he was trying hard not to breathe too deeply. He had been in several places over the years that he had judged to be unequaled in stench—Kaspar's prison, known as the Fortress of Despair, being foremost among them—but nothing could have prepared him for the overwhelming smell of this Keshian sewer.

He appreciated the reason for holding the meeting here—the slaughterhouses, tanners, and other malodorous enterprises had been sectioned off near the edge of the lake, so they were far from the residential areas of Kesh, and lay on the lee side of the city so that the prevailing breezes blew the stench away. But the entire area still reeked.

They reached an outflow and Shabeer stepped on a uneven stone that was a cleverly disguised toehold. He levered himself into the outflow, and disappeared into the darkness.

As he was holding the lantern, Tal said, “Slow down, boy.”

He followed Shabeer and had to duck to stop his head from hitting the ceiling of the smaller outflow tunnel. The boy led him about two hundred yards, until they came to what appeared to be a large circular catchment area.

Several streams of malodorous fluids trickled down from above, and Shabeer motioned for Tal to stay close to the left-hand wall as he inched around to a series of iron rungs set in the brickwork.

Tal followed the climbing boy, until he pushed upon a trapdoor overhead. They emerged into a well-lit room. Caleb and Kaspar were already there, and sat opposite a large table. Next to them was an empty chair.

As soon as Tal had cleared the trapdoor, he heard a voice from the other side of the room say, “Be seated, if you will.”

The large table dominated the room. It was a rough thing of no artistry, but it was sturdy and Tal realized that its primary purpose would be to slow down those seeking to attack whoever was on the other side of it.

That person was a large man in a striped robe, similar in fashion to those worn by the desert men of the Jal-Pur, but the wearer was no desert man. He had the neck of a bull, and his head was completely shaved. His eyebrows were so fair that it looked like he had none. His age was unfathomable—he could have been as young as twenty-nine, or as old as sixty. The single candle didn't provide enough light for Tal to guess more closely. On either side of him stood a well-armed man: bodyguards.

Once Tal had taken his seat, the man said, “You may call me Magistrate, an honorific given to me by those who dwell in the sewers and alleyways, and it will serve for now.

“Your friend Caleb has been most generous and has bought you some of my time, my friends. Time is money, as I am sure you are all aware, so let us get directly to the question: what have you to ask of the Ragged Brotherhood?”

Caleb asked, “Do you speak on their behalf?”

“As much as any man can,” came the answer. “Which is to say, not at all.” He looked directly at Tal. “We are not like your famous Mockers of Krondor, with strict oversight and iron rule, Talwin Hawkins of the Kingdom.”

Kaspar glanced at Caleb, and the Magistrate continued. “Yes, we know who you are, Kaspar of Olasko.” He pointed at Caleb. “You, my friend, however, are known by name only, your provenance is a little murky. In any event, the Upright Man may command in Krondor”—he put his hand on his chest and gave a slight bow—“but here, I merely suggest. Though, if it is a good suggestion, it will almost certainly be heard.

“Now, what may I do for you?”

“We seek the Nighthawks,” answered Caleb.

“From what I hear you found them a week ago. There were an unusually high number of corpses floating toward the Overn to feed the crocodiles, and a fair number of them were wearing black.”

“We were led into a trap,” admitted Caleb.

“Likely,” came the answer.

Kaspar said, “We need intelligence. We need to know where their real nest is.”

“As I said,” replied the fat man, “this is not Krondor and we do not have any real organization. Kesh is divided into precincts; each has its own rules and rulers. Aboveground, you'll find the street gangs, beggars, pickpockets, and enforcers—I believe they are known as ‘bashers,' in the north—and all answer to their own leaders. Those leaders answer to more powerful figures and each of them guards his authority jealously.

“The Slaughterhouse Gang controls the area we now occupy, and to the southwest of here are the Dockstreet Boys. There are over a hundred such gangs, all with equally colorful sobriquets: the Grab-and-Runs, the Big Plaza Gang, the Sweet Hounds, the Caravan Rangers, and many others. A thief may work with impunity in one quarter, but should he be caught in another he might be dealt with harshly; such is the order of things in Kesh.

“Belowground, the sewers are also divided into precincts, or small cantons, and each is home to those who exist at the sufferance of the gang above them. The rest is a no-man's-land and all are free to travel, but at some risk. There is no formal rule, but there are customs and conventions.”

“And you?” asked Tal.

“My place in all of this is of little importance; I broker understanding. I am something of a magistrate among the Ragged Brotherhood, hence the honorific. If conflict occurs, I am called upon to adjudicate. I also provide services, and…information.”

“At a price,” said Caleb.

The man smiled, showing two teeth capped in gold. “Obviously. I am getting old and need to consider my future. I have a little farm on the other side of the Overn. Someday, I shall retire there and watch my servants grow crops. But I am in no hurry; I cannot abide farming.

“So, you wish to know the whereabouts of the Nighthawks' base. That will cost a great deal of gold.”

“How much?” asked Caleb.

“A great deal.”

“And how much is a great deal?”

“Quite a lot actually,” said the man. “I will need to bribe quite a few
very frightened thieves. The more afraid they are, the higher their price, and few things in this city scare them more than the Nighthawks.

“There are several areas of the city, including the sewers below, where wise thieves do not trespass. Those who do, tend to disappear. There are the usual stories of monsters, imperial thief-catchers, and rogue gangs. But one of these areas will turn out to be the place your black-feathered birds have made their nest.

“If we can find it.”

“If?” asked Tal.

The fat man nodded. “There are rumors of magic and evil spirits. While thieves are among the most superstitious fools in Kesh, I would not discount the rumors. If they are true, even the most stealthy of the Ragged Brotherhood may find the areas difficult to approach. There is no easy way past a ward that strikes you dead should you even gaze upon it.

“So, I make no guarantees. Now, to the bargain. I will need three hundred gold coins to begin with, for bribes and rewards, and for my fee I'll need another hundred. Once the information is secured, I ask ten gold coins in blood money to the gangs for each of their men killed in the hunt, and another five hundred for myself.”

“Done!” said Caleb, standing up.

“Ah!” laughed the fat man. “I knew I should have asked for more. But done is done.”

The others rose, and Tal said, “Where shall we find you?”

“I will find you, Tal Hawkins. Kaspar guests at the palace and that is one place most difficult for us to reach, and Caleb must lie low, as he is a marked man.

“Now, while there's a question about an attempt upon a foreign noble at the Mistress of Luck some nights back, I think it safe to say that for at least a few days you can move about the city without fear of instant death.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Tal. “They weren't afraid to try and kill me at the Mistress of Luck.”

“Had the Nighthawks wished you dead, young lord, you would now be dead. Your prowess with a sword is renowned, so you would have received a deadly dart or a splash of poison in your drink and no
one would have noticed. No, they wanted to take you alive, because they wanted to question you. No doubt in the exact fashion in which you now question their man.”

“You know?”

“I make it my business to know,” said the large man, rising to his feet. “Do not worry; the Nighthawks are a danger, but they are few in number and their attention cannot be everywhere at once. On the other hand, I have eyes and ears everywhere.

“Unlike the nobles and wealthy merchants in the city above, I do not walk through the day fearlessly, convinced that no harm can befall me because of my station or birth. I know there are hands in shadows and daggers in those hands. I will warn you if I learn of any trouble headed your way.”

“And why would you do that?” asked Caleb.

“Because if you are dead, you can't pay me.” He pointed to the trap. “One at a time, and in this order: Kaspar of Olasko, then Caleb, then Talwin. Each of you will find a guide back to a safe exit from the sewers. I suggest you take a bath when you reach your quarters. The stench here seeps into your very skin. Now, good evening and safe journey.”

The three moved as instructed and were soon on their way back through the tunnels, each hoping that they were on their way to turning the tide of this struggle at last.

 

Turgan Bey stood motionless. He was wearing the ceremonial torque of his office, a magnificent creation of polished stones and enameled metal set in gold.

He was presenting Kaspar to the Emperor, even though the question of his asylum had been decided weeks earlier. Kaspar would swear an oath of fealty to the Empire and in exchange they wouldn't hang him, flay him alive, or throw him to the crocodiles.

For the first time since losing his duchy, Kaspar of Olasko looked upon Diigai, the ancient Emperor of Great Kesh.

A frail man, Diigai still held himself erect, but his movements barely hinted at his once formidable prowess as a hunter. Like his
ancestors, he had hunted the great black-maned lion of the Keshian plains. His shrunken chest still carried scars from those hunting triumphs, pale though they might be.

The throne he sat on was made from ivory set into black marble, and behind the Emperor a bas-relief of a falcon with its wings outstretched was carved into the wall: the great seal of Kesh. Before it stood a wooden perch, upon which rested a live falcon, who preened and watched the inhabitants of the room from hooded eyes.

The Master of Ceremonies stood next to the foot of the dais, a thirteen-step ivory-inlaid mass of carved stone. His great headdress was resplendent with rare feathers and gold badges. Around his waist he wore the traditional golden belt of his office as well as the plain linen kilt, but rather than baring his chest, he was permitted to wear a leopard skin over one shoulder.

Not that he needs any more indication of his status,
Kaspar thought; the headdress looked as if it might topple off his shiny pate at any second. Still, in typical Keshian fashion, the introduction and offering of the petition had been relatively expedited, taking only half an hour so far, and already the man was nearly done.

Kaspar had stopped listening after the first five minutes, turning his thoughts to the coming confrontation and the events that had led up to his own overthrow. While he harbored no love for the Empire, its ruler was a man without stain on his honor and he deserved better than to see his empire ripped away from the rightful heir.

Kaspar also knew that the hand behind all this trouble was not really an ambitious prince, but a mad sorcerer who had also played a large part in Kaspar's downfall. The paths of the two rulers might be different, but the end result would be the same: more chaos in the region and an advantage for those who served the forces of evil in this hemisphere.

He relived the events that had led to his downfall—the insinuation of Leso Varen into his household, his influence over Kaspar, which was subtle at first then overt later, and finally his ruination. Despite having reclaimed a portion of his misplaced humanity, and finding his moral compass at last, Kaspar still thirsted for Varen's blood.

Years of enduring court etiquette asserted their influence as he
then realized he had just been introduced. He reverted his attention to the present and stepped forward to bow smoothly, as if he had been hanging on the Master of Ceremonies' every word.

He had been presented to the Emperor twice before, first as Crown Prince when he had first traveled to Kesh with his father while still a boy, and then later as the young Duke of Olasko.

But this time he was here as a suppliant, seeking haven from retribution, or at least that was the story Turgan Bey had devised to win over Lord Semalcar, the First Chancellor and Master of Horses—the title given to the head of the Imperial Cavalry. His petition for asylum had also been endorsed by Lord Rawa, who was the leader of the Royal Charioteers.

Kaspar noticed that the two princes, Sezioti and Dangai, were absent from the court.

Kaspar looked up, and as custom dictated, he said, “He Who Is Kesh, I crave the boon of your shelter, succor against injustice, and a haven to call my own. I pledge to you my loyalty and swear to defend you with my life and honor, if it pleases the Empire.”