safe at Mother’s, save for two things: a terrible rumour, and a message from an old friend. Either the rumour or the message alone would have made Limm huddle in a corner at the Mockers’ hideout, but the combination of the two had forced him to act.
Mockers had few friends; the loyalty between thieves was rarely engendered by affection or comity, but from a greater distrust of those outside the Guild and fear of one another. Strength or wit earned one a place in the Brotherhood of Thieves.
But occasionally a friendship was struck, a bond deeper than common need, and those few friends were worth a bit more risk. Limm counted fewer than a handful of people for whom he would take any risk, let alone at such a high price should he be caught, but two of them were in need now, and had to be told of the rumour.
Something moved in the darkness ahead and Limm froze. He waited, listening for anything out of the ordinary. The sewer was far from silent, with a constant background noise made up of the distant rumble of water rushing through the large culvert below that took the city’s refuse out past the harbour mouth, a thousand drips, the scrabble of rats and other vermin and their squeaky challenges.
Wishing he had a light of any sort, Limm waited. Patience in one his age was rare outside the Mockers, but a rash thief was a dead thief. Limm earned his keep in the Mockers by being among the most adroit pickpockets in Krondor, and his ability to calmly move among the throng in the market or down the busy streets without attracting attention had set him high in the leadership’s estimation. Most boys his age were still working the streets in packs, urchins who provided distraction while other Mockers lifted goods from carts, or deflected attention from a fleeing thief.
Limm’s patience was rewarded, as the faint echo of a boot moving on stone reached him. A short distance ahead, two large culverts joined in a wade. He would have to cross through the slowly-flowing sewage to reach the other side.
It was a good place to wait, thought the boy thief. The sound of him moving through the water would alert anyone nearby and they’d be on him like hounds on a hare.
Limm considered his options. There was no way around that intersection. He could return the way he came, but that would cost him hours of moving through the dangerous sewers under the city. He could avoid crossing the transverse sewer by skirting around the corner, hugging the wall to avoid being seen, and moving down that passage to his right. He would have to trust that darkness would shelter him and he could remain silent enough to avoid detection. Once away from the intersection, he could be safely on his way.
Limm crept along, gingerly placing one foot ahead of the other, so as to not dislodge anything or step on an object that might betray his whereabouts. Fighting the impulse to hurry, he kept his breathing under control and willed himself to keep moving.
Step by step he approached the intersection of the two passages, and as he reached the corner at which he would turn, he heard another sound. A small scrape of metal against stone, as if a scabbard or sword blade had ever-so-lightly touched a wall. He froze.
Even in the dark, Limm kept his eyes closed. He didn’t know why, but shutting his eyes helped his other senses. He had wondered at this in the past, and finally stopped trying to figure out why it was so. He just knew that if he spent any energy trying to see, even in the pitch black, his hearing and sense of touch suffered.
After a long, silent, motionless period, Limm heard a rush of water heading towards him. Someone, a shopkeeper or city worker, must have purged a cistern or opened one of the smaller sluices that fed the sewer. The slight noise was the only mask he needed to resume moving, and he was quickly around the corner.
Limm hurried, still cautious but now feeling the need to put some distance between himself and whoever guarded the intersection behind him. He silently counted his steps and when one hundred had passed he opened his eyes.
As he expected, ahead was a faint dot of light, which he knew was a reflection coming down from an open grating in the West Market Square. There wasn’t enough light by which to see well, but it was a point of reference and confirmed what he already knew about his whereabouts.
He moved quickly and reached the crossway that ran parallel to the one he had been travelling before encountering the silent guard. He eased into the foul sewage and crossed the now-moving stream of refuse, reaching the opposite walkway without making much sound.
Limm was quickly up and on his way again. He knew where his friends were holed up and knew that it was a relatively safe place, but given the time and circumstances, nothing was truly safe any more. What had once been called the other Thieves’ Highway, the rooftops of Krondor, was now as much an open war zone as the sewers. The citizens of the city of Krondor might be blissfully ignorant of this silent warfare above their heads and below their feet, but Limm knew that if he didn’t encounter the Crawler’s men along the way, he risked the Prince’s soldiers, or murderers posing as Nighthawks. No man unknown to him was trustworthy, and a few whom he knew by name could be trusted only so far these days.
Limm stopped and felt the wall to his left. Despite moving by his own silent count, he discovered with satisfaction that he had been less than a foot off estimating the whereabouts of the iron rungs in the wall. He started to climb. Still blind, he felt himself enter a stone chimney, and quickly knew he was at the floor of a cellar. He reached up and felt the latch. An experimental tug showed it to be bolted from the other side.
He knocked: twice rapidly, then a pause, then twice again, another pause and a final, single knock. He waited, counting to ten, then repeated the pattern in reverse order, one knock, pause, two knocks, pause, and two again. The bolt slid open.
The trap swung upward, but the room above was as dark as the sewer below. Whoever was waiting preferred to wait unseen.
As Limm cleared the floor of the room, rough hands hauled him through, the trap shutting quickly behind him. A feminine voice whispered, ‘What are you doing here?’
Limm sat down heavily upon the stone floor, fatigue sweeping over him. ‘Running for my life,’ he said softly. Catching his breath, he continued. ‘I saw Sweet Jackie killed last night. Ugly basher working for the Crawler.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Cracked his neck like you’d break a chicken’s, while his mates stood watching. Didn’t even give Jackie a chance to beg or say a prayer, nothing. Just put him out of the way like a cockroach.’ He was close to weeping as he told them – and as relief at being relatively safe for the first time in hours washed over him. ‘But that’s not the worst of it.’
A lantern was lit by a large man with a grey beard. His narrow gaze communicated volumes: Limm had better have compelling reasons for violating a trust and coming to this hideout. ‘What else?’ he asked.
‘The Upright Man is dead.’
Ethan Graves, one-time leader of the Mockers’ bashers, for a time a brother of the Order of Ishap, and now fugitive from every court of justice in the Kingdom, took a moment to accept the news.
The woman, named Kat, was half her companion’s age, and an old friend to Limm. She asked, ‘How?’
‘Murdered, is the rumour,’ said Limm. ‘No one is saying for certain, but it’s held without doubt he’s dead.’
Graves sat down at a small table, testing the construction of the small wooden chair with his large frame. ‘How would anyone know?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘No one knows who he is … was.’
Limm said, ‘Here’s what I know. The Daymaster was still working when I came to Mother’s last night, and he was holed up in the back with Mick Giffen, Reg deVrise, and Phil the Fingers.’
