Shards of a Broken Crown (13 page)

At the head of
the long table sat an old man. He looked deformed, or crippled, as he
hunched over with left shoulder lower than the right, his left arm in
a sling. Around his head he wore a scarf, covering his left eye.
Below it, Dash saw the man’s face was scarred, badly burned. A
young woman stood to his right. Dash looked at her closely. Under
other circumstances she would have warranted a second glance, as she
was tall, slender, and under the soot and mud, still attractive, with
dark hair and eyes. But in these circumstances, what commanded Dash’s
attention was her fashion—dressed like a man and armed to the
teeth; he saw a sword, daggers in belt and boots, and he was certain
she had more weapons secreted on her, such being the practice of
thieves. She wore a dirty white shirt, now almost charcoal color, a
leather vest, men’s riding breeches, and a red scarf tied
around her head. Dark hair fell from under the scarf, and down her
back.

With a
surprisingly deep voice, she said, “You stand accused.”

Dash summoned as
much confidence as he could manage in such circumstances and said,
“No doubt.”

The lumpy-faced
man said, “Before you’re convicted, have you anything to
say in your defense?”

Dash shrugged.
“Would it do any good?”

The old man
chuckled and the man who had first apprehended Dash glanced his way.
“Probably not,” he said, “but it won’t hurt.”

“May I
first inquire of what crime I’m being accused?”

The lumpy-faced
man again glanced at the old man, who waved a curt gesture of
permission. “You stand accused of trespass. You were found
someplace you were not given permission to pass.”

Dash blew out a
long breath. “So that’s it, then. Mockers.”

The young woman
glanced at the old man, who motioned with his good hand for her to
come close. He whispered in her ear, and she said, “Why do you
think us thieves, Puppy?”

“Because
smugglers would have cut my throat and been on their way, and Duko’s
guards would have had me under questioning up there.” He
pointed upward. “You’ve separated me from my companions,
which means you’re trying to find conflicts in our stories, and
one of my companions brought you down on us; Reese seems more likely
to be a thief than anything else I can imagine.” Glancing
around the room, he said, “So this is what’s left of
Mother’s?”

The old man said
something, and the woman said, “What do you know of Mother’s?
You’re not one of us.”

“My
grandfather,” said Dash, knowing that at this point he had
nothing to lose and everything to gain with the truth.

“What
about him? Who is your grandfather?”

“Was,”
said Dash. “My grandfather was Jimmy the Hand.”

Several people
spoke at once, and the old man signaled for silence. The young woman
leaned over and then repeated his words. “Your name?”

“Dashel
Jamison. My father is Arutha, Duke of Krondor.”

Without waiting,
the girl said, “So you’ve come spying for the King.”

Dash attempted a
grin. “Well, the Prince, actually. But yes, I’m here to
scout out Duko’s defenses, so that Patrick can retake Krondor.”

The old man
waved a badly burned hand and spoke to the woman, who said, “Come
closer, Puppy.”

Dash did as he
was told and came to stand before the old man and the young woman.
The old man’s one good eye studied Dash’s face for a long
moment as the woman held a lantern close to it, so every detail could
be seen.

Finally, the old
man spoke loud enough for all to hear. “Leave us.” His
voice sounded close to ruined, dry gravel being scraped, a strangled
sound.

Everyone but the
woman did, instantly and without hesitation, and the old man said,
“Well, then. It is a small world, boy.”

Dash leaned over
to study the burned features before him and he said, “Do I know
you, sir?”

“No,”
said the old man slowly, as if every word hurt. “But I know you
by name and lineage, Dashel, son of Arutha. “

“Am I to
know your name, sir?”

The woman
glanced at the old man, but his one good eye stayed fastened upon
Dash. “I’m your great-uncle, boy, that’s who I am.
I’m the Upright Man.”

Arutha frowned.

Pug stood at the
door studying the Duke of Krondor a moment, before he said softly,
“May I speak with you a moment?”

Arutha glanced
upward and waved him in. “Grandfather. Please.”

“You
appear distracted,” said Pug, sitting in a chair across a large
oak table Arutha used for work.

“I was.”

“Jimmy and
Dash?”

Arutha nodded as
he looked out a window at the warm spring afternoon. His eyes
narrowed. They were deep sunk and had dark bags underneath, revealing
the lack of sleep that had plagued him since sending his sons into
harm’s way. There was grey in Arutha’s hair; Pug hadn’t
seen so much just a month before.

Arutha looked at
Pug and said, “You needed to see me?”

“We have a
problem.”

Arutha nodded.
“We have many. Which particular one are we discussing?”

“Patrick.”

Arutha stood and
moved around the table to the door and glanced through. A pair of
clerks outside were hunched over documents, reviewing reports and
requests for supplies, lost in their work.

Arutha closed
the door. He returned to his seat and said, “What do you
propose?”

“I propose
you send a message to the King.”

“And?”
Arutha looked directly into the magician’s eyes.

“I think
we need another commander in the West.”

Arutha sighed,
and in that moment Pug could hear the fatigue, stress, worry, and
doubt in the man, expressed in as eloquent a fashion as if an orator
had spoken for an hour. Pug instantly knew the outcome of this
discussion before Arutha said another word. Yet he allowed the Duke
to continue. “History teaches us that we often do not get the
best men for a particular job. It also teaches us that if the rest of
us do ours, we’ll somehow manage.”

Pug leaned
forward and said, “We are this close”—he held
forefinger and thumb apart a scant portion of an inch— “to
war with Great Kesh. Don’t you think it proper to finish the
one we have before we start another?”

“What I
think is immaterial,” said Arutha. “I counsel the Prince,
but it’s his realm. I’m only allowed to manage it for
him.”

Pug remained
silent and stared at Arutha a long moment.

Suddenly Arutha
allowed his temper to get the better of him, slamming his hand down
on the table. “I am not my father, damn it!”

Pug remained
silent for another moment, then said, “I never said you were .
. . or that you should be.”

“No, but
you were thinking, ‘How would James have dealt with this?’
“

Pug said, “It
was your mother that read minds, Arutha, not I.”

Arutha leaned
forward. “You’re my grandfather, yet I hardly know you.”
He glanced upward toward the ceiling, as if collecting his thoughts,
then said, “And that means you hardly know me.”

“You were
raised on the other side of the Kingdom, Arutha. We saw each other
from time to time . . .”

Arutha said,
“It’s difficult growing up surrounded on all sides by
legends. Did you know that?”

Pug shrugged. “I
am not sure.”

Arutha said, “My
father was ‘Jimmy the Hand,’ the thief who became the
most powerful noble in the Kingdom. I was named for the man who is
almost unarguably the most brilliant ruler the Western Realm has
known.

“The King
and I have discussed what it’s like to be the sons of such men,
on several occasions.” He pointed his finger at the magician
and said, “And you . . . you look like my son. You look younger
now than you did when I was a child. You’re turning into a
figure of mystery and fear, Grandfather. ‘Pug, the Eternal
Sorcerer!’ The man who saved us during the Riftwar.”

Arutha stopped,
weighed his words, and said, “Borric, before he became King,
once told me that our roles would be far different than our fathers‘.
Arutha had been thrust into command in Crydee, a situation demanding
action without hesitation, without doubt.

“Father
was the brash boy who saved Arutha, then became his most trusted
adviser and friend. Between the two of them there was always an
answer.”

Pug laughed, and
it wasn’t a mocking laugh. “I’m sure they would
argue they had their share of doubts and mistakes, Arutha.”

“Perhaps,
but the results were there. As a child I grew up hearing the stories
in Rillanon, tales told to entertain the eastern nobles who had never
seen Krondor, let alone the Far Coast. How Prince Arutha had saved
Crydee from the Tsurani host, and had journeyed to Krondor where he
found Princess Anita. How father had helped smuggle them both from
the city, then later helped get Earl Kasumi to see the King.”

Arutha became
more reflective. “I heard the story of the renegade moredhel,
and the rogue magician from Kelewan, and I was told of the attack on
the Tear of the Gods. I heard of the Crawler and his attempt to take
over the Mockers, and the other stories of Father’s more
reckless youth.” He looked at Pug. “I wasn’t a
noble reading dry reports, but a boy hearing tales from his father.”

Pug said, “What
are you telling me? That you don’t feel equal to the task?”

“No man
can be equal to the task of putting the Kingdom right, Grandfather.”
He narrowed his gaze. “Not even you.”

Pug took a deep
breath, then relaxed. “So Patrick won’t give up
Stardock?”

“He wants
it all back, Grandfather. He wants this city rebuilt in his lifetime
to a glory beyond what it was before. He wants Kesh completely out of
the vale. He wants the Bitter Sea cleared of Quegan raiders and
Keshian pirates, and when Borric finally dies, Patrick wants to go to
Rillanon to take the Crown, to be known as the greatest Prince in the
history of the West.”

Softly Pug said,
“Save us from monarchs with vanity.”

“Not
vanity, Pug. Fear.”

Pug nodded.
“Young men often fear failure.”

“I
understand his fear,” said Arutha. “Maybe if I had been
given a different name, George or Harry, Jack or Robert, but no; I
was named for the man Father admired above all others.”

“Prince
Arutha was a very admirable man. Of all the men I’ve known, he
was among the most gifted.”

“A fact of
which I’m painfully aware.” Arutha sat back, as if
seeking some comfort. “If Arutha were still Prince, and Father
still Duke, perhaps Patrick’s dreams of returned glory would
prove possible. As it is today . . .”

Pug said,
“What?”

“We are
lesser men.”

Pug’s
expression turned dark. “You are tired. You are tired and you
are worried about the boys.” He stood. “And about Patrick
and the Kingdom and everything there is in this life to be worried
and tired about.” He leaned over the desk and said, “But
know this: you are able. And as long as you’re my grandson, I
will not let you forget that. The boys are my great-grandsons. Gamina
may not have been the daughter of my body, but she was the daughter
of my heart, and I love all her children and grandchildren none the
less for this.” He reached across the table and put his hand on
Arutha’s shoulder. “Especially you.”

Moisture came
unbidden to Arutha’s eyes. “Me?”

Softly Pug said,
“You may not be as much like your father as you would wish, but
you are more like your mother than you’ll ever know.” He
removed his hand and turned to go. “I’ll leave you. Rest,
and dine with me tonight when you’ve had a chance to refresh
yourself.” He reached the door and said, “Try not to
worry too much about the boys. I am sure they are safe.”

He opened the
door and left, closing it behind him. Arutha, Duke of Krondor, sat
silently and thought about what his grandfather had just said to him.
At last he allowed himself the luxury of a long sigh, then turned to
the work still before him. Perhaps he would take the opportunity to
rest a bit before supper that evening. And as he regarded the report
on top of the pile, he thought, The boys are able. Grandfather is
most likely right, and the boys are safe.

Jimmy’s
head snapped backward as the soldier stepped through the blow.
Jimmy’s eyes watered from the pain and his vision turned red
for a moment. His knees wobbled and he felt himself start to go, but
the other two guards who held him kept him upright.

“All
right,” said the interrogator, speaking the King’s Tongue
with a very heavy accent. “Again.” He paused. “Let’s
start again. Why were you sneaking into Krondor?”

Malar was held
by another two soldiers. His nose bled and his right eye was puffy,
as he had stood his turn at interrogation. Jimmy was now very pleased
that he and Dash had told him nothing.

Jimmy shook his
head to clear it, and said, “I told you. I’m a mercenary
from the East, and this is my dog robber. I’m looking for
work.”

“Wrong
answer,” said the man, and he struck Jimmy again. Jimmy
collapsed, unable to make his legs obey, and was held entirely by the
two soldiers.

Jimmy spat
blood, and through rapidly swelling lips said, “What do you
want me to say?”

“Every
mercenary outside the walls has been told to stay out of Krondor. If
you were a freebooter you would know this.” He nodded and the
two men moved to the wall, and let Jimmy slump to the floor. The man
knelt, putting his own face down near Jimmy’s.

The soldier was
a brutish-looking fellow, with a beetle brow and thick black hair
that hung down over his shoulders. He sported a short black beard,
and at this close quarter, Jimmy could see he bore an assortment of
scars on his neck and shoulders. The man grabbed Jimmy’s hair
and said, “Either you’re a fool or you’re a spy.
Which is it?”