She opened the door and moved aside so he could step into a warm tub of water in the middle of a room. ‘I’m called Anne right now.’
He settled into the still-warm tub and gave a satisfied sigh. Many times in his life his chosen role had required him to go days, weeks even, without being properly clean. He sat back as Anne poured a jug of warm water over his head and began shampooing vigorously. ‘Weren’t you Anne in . . . ?’
‘Salador,’ she supplied.
‘So, what do we know?’ he asked.
Leaning over the edge of the tub, Anne said, ‘I’ve been here about a month, since I got your message in Krondor. I’ve found nothing substantial, but this palace is awash with rumours.’
‘It’s the palace. There are always rumours.’
‘Yes, but as you taught me,’ she said scrubbing his back, ‘there are rumours and there are rumours.’
‘I don’t have time to sift through rumours. If you can’t tell me what you know, tell me what you think.’
Leaning over to scrub his chest from behind, her face near his ear, she whispered, ‘Sir William Alcorn is putting those loyal to him, or at least in his debt, into key positions and the King seems to have no objection. Your grandfather most certainly did.’
‘And you think this has something to do with my grandfather’s health?’
‘Hard to say, Jim,’ she said as she draped her arms around his neck. ‘I’ve nosed around as much as I can and the healing priests and chirurgeons all seem above suspicion. Maybe one of them might be working for someone trying to get your grandfather out of the way, but the others would have likely found some hint of magic or poison.
‘He is an old man, Jim.’
‘He’s the only family I have left, or at least the only family left that still speaks to me.’
She shrugged. As an orphan she had even less family, but over the years she had come to appreciate that the topic of Jim’s family was only under discussion when he brought it up. She knew there had been many difficulties between Jim and his father, his Uncle Dasher, and his cousin Richard. Some of it was political, for reasons Jim never mentioned, and some of it was family history, for reasons even more obscure. But she had been around Lord James long enough to read his moods. ‘You’re really worried, aren’t you?’
‘I am.’
‘I have a theory should you wish to hear it.’
‘Go on.’
‘I believe your grandfather may have been poisoned, but not to the extent of trying to kill him.’
Jim was silent for a moment, then said, ‘Keep him out of the way, but not raise suspicion by a death?’
‘He’s been too ill to be an effective counter to Sir William Alcorn’s shenanigans for over two weeks.’ She paused, then said, ‘He’s very clever, our Sir William, and very deft. It’s as if he has everything slowly moving until he’s poised, then suddenly—,’ she clapped her hands together, ‘—he’s moved two or three people around before anyone can mount an objection. Moreover, even before your grandfather took ill, his influence had grown. His relationship with the King, going back to when they were young soldiers together . . .’ She let the thought run out, and shrugged. Both knew that the ‘simple’ court knight had become the most powerful man in the Kingdom, usurping the position held by Jim’s grandfather. ‘What do you think?’ she asked.
Before he could answer, the door in the other room opened and someone came in. Anne leapt into the tub with Jim with a squeal of laughter, splashing water over the floor.
Jim looked up to see a soldier standing inside his quarters looking embarrassed. ‘Sorry sir, but I knocked and you didn’t answer.’
Feigning annoyance, Jim said, ‘Can’t you see I’m occupied?’
‘It’s your grandfather, sir. He’s awake and asking for you.’
Jim made a show of forcing Anne off him, grabbed a towel and saw the guard trying very hard not to watch Anne as she climbed out of the tub. Whoever he might report to would hear only a sordid narration of a bored noble and a maid of easy virtue, nothing out of the ordinary in the palace.
Jim dressed quickly, tossing a look over his shoulder to Anne. ‘Be on your way, girl. Perhaps I’ll have time for you tonight.’
‘Sir,’ she said as if annoyed yet hopeful. She knew that meant she was to find him tonight so they could compare notes on what he had learned.
He followed the guard to his grandfather’s apartment where Sergeant Mallory was back at his post. ‘Sir,’ he said with a quick salute as two guards opened the doors into his grandfather’s apartment.
Propped up in his large bed, James Jamison, second of that name to hold the title of Duke of Rillanon, beckoned for his grandson to come closer. No one needed to say anything; Jim took one look at the old man and knew he was near death. He walked to the bedside and leaned over, kissing his grandfather’s forehead.
‘Good to see you, lad,’ whispered the old man.
‘Good to see you, Grandfather.’
‘Now,’ he said patting the bed beside him, ‘sit down and shut up. There’s a lot I need to tell you and not much time.’
Jim sat down and waited for his grandfather to tell him something vital.
It was a shaken James Jamison who left his grandfather’s quarters an hour later. Even those who knew him well might not see any outward sign, but inside Jim was as near to a state of panic as he had been in his entire life. His world was coming apart at the seams.
Jim was the eyes and ears of the Kingdom, the trader in secrets and hidden truths, but his grandfather had command of the Congress of Lords and knew the temper of the nobility of the two realms, from the Duchy of Ran to the Far Coast. Between the two of them they had pieced together a puzzle that had been baffling them both for more than a year prior to the outbreak of war between Kesh and the Kingdom.
Politics was more the province of his grandfather. His late uncle, Dasher, likewise had been a political animal. Jim’s father had been much more like his great grandfather, Arutha, son of the first James, a gifted administrator, bright and likable, but otherwise not especially remarkable. And his cousin Richard was a soldier with all the noble and annoying traits that required. One thing about Richard, Jim knew, was that he might currently be one of the few soldiers he could rely on, and that he commanded the Prince’s Army in Krondor, which might prove vital before all was said and done.
Not all Jamesons were suited to governance; most were gifted in whatever role life provided, but only Jim had developed the same lethal set of skills and the cold nerve to use them in service to the Crown that his namesake, the original James, Jimmy the Hand, had enjoyed. And now it looked as if he was going to need every shred of talent he possessed as well as every bitter experience, harsh lesson, and the famous Jamison luck to thwart what was now clearly shaping up to be a bid to seize the crown of the Kingdom of the Isles.
While he had been busy trying to uncover who had been subverting or killing off his operatives and why Kesh was moving towards the Kingdom, someone else had been busy plotting a coup d’état and from what his grandfather had said, they were close to ready.
James stopped as he reached the major hallway bisecting the palace. Ahead were his own quarters and those of other royal retainers and functionaries, while to the right were offices and the guards’ quarters to either side of the entrance to the royal wing, containing the great hall, the King’s apartments and the living quarters of the household staff. To the left was the grand entrance and steps down to the palace’s marshalling yard.
In as many years as he could remember, this was the first time Jim Dasher, Lord Jamison, had no idea where to go next. He knew that he must be in the palace for at least another night and day, but after that?
His network of agents was compromised; yet he had been almost arrogant in his certainty of his own cleverness in taking what his grandfather had begun, grafting onto it his great uncle’s Mockers. He had spent years successfully infiltrating every stratum of Kingdom society and not a little of Ke
sh, Queg, and the Free Cities in the west with spies and provocateurs. No activity from affairs of state down to smuggling along the coast escaped his notice, and he had been supreme in the Bitter Sea.
Or so he had thought until Amed Dabu Asam had tried to kill him. His most trusted agent in Kesh, one of his most trusted anywhere, and now he was a man Jim would take great delight in seeing dead.
With Amed compromised, Jim assumed his entire ring of spies west of Land’s End must be untrustworthy. Even if he was to survive all this . . . if the Kingdom was to survive all this, not one man in Kesh could be trusted.
From what he had been able to discover on his own coupled with what his grandfather had told him, Jim could assume only about a third of his agents were still in place and trustworthy.
He realized palace servants and minor Kingdom officials passing by were taking notice of him. If he was going to dither, he might as well do it while going somewhere. He knew a place near the merchants’ quarters where he could both dine and arrange for certain agents to find him. He turned towards the grand entrance and the outer gates of the palace.
It had been nearly a year since he had been in Rillanon, and while his grandfather’s loyal agents had most of the city under observation, it was clear there was what, as Kaseem Abu Hazara-Khan – his opposite number in Kesh – had observed, ‘another player’ in the game. If Lady Franciezka Sorboz’s spy ring in Roldem had been compromised, and Jim’s in the Kingdom crippled, Kaseem’s had been utterly destroyed. When last Jim had seen him he had been a hunted man. No doubt he was secreted away somewhere until he could safely resurface or give up any hope of continuing in service to the Empire. If the latter and he could safely reach his people in the Jal-Pur desert, he might live to old age as a nameless tribesman. Jim considered that last option very problematical given how far Kaseem had to travel to reach the safety of his family’s camp.
Jim reached the steps leading down into the palace courtyard and made straight for the small personal entrance, the size of an ordinary door set into the large, ornate iron gate that guarded the entrance to the palace grounds. The large gates, opened to admit detachments of horse and large carriages, was closed as a rule, but now he was surprised to find the small gate also barred and two guards posted before it.
‘Sir?’ one challenged him as he approached.
‘I’m James Jamison, the Duke’s grandson. I thought I’d get out in the city and stretch my legs a bit.’
The guard nodded. ‘Well enough, sir. If you can show us your pass.’
‘Pass?’ Jim’s face darkened. ‘Since when does a member of the royal court need a pass to enter and leave the palace grounds?’
‘Since the order was posted this morning, sir. You need a pass signed by the Viceroy’s office.’
‘Viceroy?’
‘You’ve not heard, sir?’ said the guard in affable tones. ‘Why, this very morning the King named his friend Sir William Alcorn Viceroy, to help him run things until the old duke, I mean your grandfather, is back on his feet. Orders came down with the changing of the guard; no one in or out without the Viceroy’s approval.’
Pushing aside his sense of outrage, Jim forced a smile. ‘That must be it, then. I came in late last night, exhausted, and slept in until meeting with my grandfather. I’ll go at once to Sir William’s office and see to the matter. Carry on.’ Jim turned and marched back towards the palace steps.
There was only one possible reason for the new requirement for a pass: Sir William had decided to limit the comings and goings of those in the royal household, including the Duke’s staff. Had his grandfather been fit, Jim had no doubt that pass requirement would not have lasted more than a half-day, but his grandfather was soundly sleeping after being forced to imbibe a sleeping draught by the royal chirurgeon.
Jim knew it would be suspicious if he didn’t put in an appearance at Sir William’s office, but he didn’t feel the need to go straight away. He had a half-dozen ways to leave the palace whenever he wished, and no doubt Sir William knew about two or three of them.
First he needed to find Anne and send her on a little errand – and then make a quick check on his grandfather. And he desperately needed to get something to eat. He was starving, having not eaten for nearly three days. If they hadn’t cleared the tray out of his room, he’d eat whatever was there, no matter how cold, dried out, or stale it might be.
His frustration gave way to a rare flight of fancy. His tasks would have been so much easier if he’d had a magician on his staff, someone like Magnus who could just transport him to one place or another. That returned Jim to thinking about his last visit to Sorcerer’s Isle and he wondered how Pug was getting on with uncovering his own personal nest of traitors.
As he climbed the wide steps into the palace that thought sent a new chill down Jim’s back: should Pug’s problems turn out to be as grave as his own, the consequences of what he faced was probably far more dire than the situation here. For if Jim failed in his tasks, his King and the conDoin dynasty might fall, perhaps even the Kingdom of the Isles in its entirety, but should Pug fail . . .
Jim shoved aside the thought. He didn’t want to contemplate what might happen to this entire world if Pug should fail.
Pug sat quietly, his face an unreadable mask as he listened to the debate taking place on the floor of the Academy Council. A strange sense of déjà vu struck him for a brief moment: the Academy was becoming more like the Assembly of Magicians on Kelewan where he had trained.
Currently there appeared to be four groups represented among the members, groups that had formed around the teachings of three men, each reflecting a different philosophy, and a fourth, uncommitted, faction. Pug realized that of those in attendance, he was the only person who had actually known those three men. Two of them had been his students, Korsh and Watoom, two very talented magicians of Keshian ancestry. The third faction had been influenced by his close friend for years, Nakor. He wondered what his old friend might think of what had become of the Academy were he alive to see it.
A tall, slender magician named Natiba stood and addressed the twenty members of the council. ‘The Wand of Watoom has met in caucus and we have weighed the warning carried to us by Pug.’ He bowed slightly in Pug’s direction.
As founder of the Academy on Stardock Island, land once ceded him by the Crown of the Kingdom of the Isles, Pug was viewed with veneration but since he had renounced his loyalty to the Kingdom and given Stardock and the Academy autonomy, he was also viewed with some suspicion, an unspoken concern he might some day choose to attempt to reclaim the school of magicians and the town of Stardock.
Pug appeared ageless, looking much as he had for the last century and more, with his dark hair and beard. He was slender and short, but had a wiry strength, an aura of toughness and resilience. He might be the single most powerful magician on this world – though he considered his son Magnus might soon surpass him, if he had not already – but he had begun life as an orphan kitchen-boy in far-off Crydee Keep and had endured four years as a slave on the Tsurani home world of Kelewan. He was no lifelong academic.
Pug had seen death and destruction on a scale unimaginable to nearly every other magic-user in attendance and considered this current debate trivial, pointless, and a waste of time. Yet he endured it, because he honoured his pledge and would let events take their natural course.
The Wand of Watoom was one of the two Keshian-dominated factions in the Academy, the other being the Hands of Korsh. Watoom had been a Keshian, but not a Trueblood, like Korsh had been. The difference between those friends had evolved two groups, who were both conservative by nature. The Wand was by far the more cautious and reactive of the two, keeping themselves focused on internal matters almost to the exclusion of the outside world. The Hands of Korsh was still conservative in its outlook, but was more inclined to take active part in events beyond the Island of Stardock.
The third faction called themselves the Blue Riders in honour of one of Nakor’s more colour
ful affectations: a grand blue robe that had been a gift to him from the Empress of Kesh. That and a beautiful black stallion he had ridden like a madman until it died. The Blue Riders believed there was no magic, and that anyone could learn ‘tricks’, so they were constantly at odds with the other two factions. They were far more progressive and believed in an active, ongoing engagement with the outside world.
As usual the Hands were the swing faction, standing between the Riders and the Wand, with the uncommitted members likely to bring matters to a resolution. The topic being debated was the warning Pug had just delivered to the Council regarding the demon incursion into Midkemia and the possible threat posed from them and the forces behind the demons, the Dread.
The debate had been taking the better part of a day, and for Pug it had been tedium piled upon pointlessness. He had arrived the night before and conferred with the senior members of the Council, called the Administration: five members, one from each of the three named factions and a further two selected from the undecided members. Pug did not like the idea of any faction having automatic placement on such a body, it reeked too much of the party politics that had plagued much of the Empire of Tsuranuanni for centuries, but he forced himself to remain silent on all matters of governance over the Academy. For it to be truly independent, he must merely be seen as another magician.
Natiba finished his remarks, like many of those before merely a rehash of positions already argued, as if some members felt the need to speak even if only to reiterate what had already been said, in case they somehow might lose position or prestige in this council by staying silent.
Another magician rose and was given the floor. Pug was pleased to see this one was dressed in a plain brown robe, making him look like a mendicant friar of one of the temple orders rather than a magician. Too many of the magicians here, especially those in the conservative orders, affected the black robes similar to those worn by the Tsurani Great Ones. Pug absently wondered how much of that was due to his own choice to wear those garments, to constantly remind him of how he had come to be ‘the Black Sorcerer’.