was nonsense, what was a metaphorical approximation of reality, and what could be called ‘facts’. Though Pug was beginning to think the demon realm’s very nature made ‘facts’ somewhat mutable.
As he entered the great room, Pug caught sight of his son. ‘Magnus.’
Magnus turned and regarded him. After a brief second he said, ‘Something’s up. What?’
‘Let’s rebuild the villa.’
The younger magician hesitated for a moment. Then he nodded. ‘I think that’s a good idea.’ Looking at the empty teapot in his father’s hand he said, ‘May I join you?’
‘Always.’
The kitchen was empty but the fire still burned in the metal stove constructed within the roasting hearth. Pug filled the pot with water from a large bucket, then rinsed it out, and refilled it. He put it down in front of the fire on the hot metal plate, and waited for it to boil.
‘What caused you to change your mind?’ asked Magnus.
‘It’s time.’ So much of what he fought against was a dark despair that arose from a bargain struck with Lims-Kragma, the Death Goddess, when he had been given three choices: to end his life at the hands of the demon Jakan, to take up the burden of becoming an avatar of the God of Magic, hastening his return to Midkemia, or to come back and finish the struggle, but at a price. The price was to watch everyone he loved die before him. So far that had included a son, adopted daughter, then another son and his wife. Of his bloodline, only Magnus remained. There were the three foster-grandsons, Jommy, Tad, and Zane … Pug was forced to admit he had let his fear of the curse allow him to become estranged from his great-grandsons, Jimmy and Dash Jamison. While not blood relatives (they were his adopted daughter’s children) they still were dear to him. And there was Jim Dasher, Jimmy Jamison’s grandson. Pug sighed; he liked the complex, dangerous man, mostly because there were moments when he glimpsed his many-great-grandfather, Jimmy the Hand, in him, but if there was any spark of affection it had not been fanned into a flame. He liked Jim, but he hardly loved him.
Over the years Pug had become adept at steeling himself against feelings that might cause him to betray his higher calling, to protect this world and everyone else on it. Yet those feelings were there – hidden, buried even – but there nevertheless.
As they waited for the kettle to boil, Magnus said, ‘Who should oversee the rebuilding?’
‘I will, I think,’ said his father. ‘I know every beam and stone of that place as well or better than anyone else.’ He smiled. ‘I lived there longer than anyone else.’
Magnus returned the smile. ‘It’s good to see you … this way, Father.’
‘Losing your mother and brother was hard on you, too, Magnus. I lost sight of that in my own grief, I’m sorry to say.’
Magnus was silent for a moment. His face reminded Pug of Miranda’s. It was longer than his father’s, with higher cheekbones; but his eyes were from some mysterious ancestor unknown to Pug. They were as blue as frozen ice, and could gaze right through a person. He said softly, ‘I have never been a man to measure my sorrows against another’s sorrows, Father. I thought you were not as well.’
‘I just mean that becoming lost in my own misery, I perhaps didn’t give as much attention to your pain; that is all.’ Pug lowered his eyes. ‘It’s a poor father who turns his back on his son’s hurt, no matter how grown the son.’
Magnus nodded. ‘We are both the sort to retreat into ourselves at times like that. There is no fault in this; it’s a matter of our nature.’ With a slight smile he said, ‘Besides, I’m too big for you to pick up so I can cry on your shoulder.’
Pug was forced to laugh. ‘It’s been a few years since I did that, hasn’t it?’
The water reached a simmer and Magnus fetched the pot. He put it down on the table and said, ‘What now?’
Pug looked at his son and picked up the pot. ‘Now, I’ve got a mess of an office to deal with; tomorrow we begin rebuilding.’
Magnus impulsively reached out and hugged his father, then said, ‘Good.’
Pug left the kitchen while his son sat back down at the table. After a moment Magnus let out a long sigh and allowed himself a short time to reflect. As tears welled up in his eyes he wiped them away and stood up. There was a great deal of work to be done and it would not wait because some wounds would not heal. And perhaps the work would help the healing. Still, deep within was a sense that even after all the years since his mother’s and brother’s deaths, there was no hope of those wounds healing, but perhaps time might deaden them.
The lookout aloft shouted ‘Sails in sight!’ and the captain called for men aloft. As much as he hated being barefoot in the cold, Jim Dasher, freebooting merchant sailor out of Hansulé, endured it. Jim knew enough of the barmen, whores, and dockworkers to convince anyone he was Jaman Rufiki. His dark hair but fair skin made him look like a Sea of Kingdoms man, which fitted with his false life story: born in Pointer’s Head, whence he had first shipped out, then spent years along the Great Sea, from Ithra down to Brijané.
He had used his transportation orb to arrive in Queral unseen, where he was met by his agents. No one south of that city had reported in the last three months and he suspected his safe houses in the south of the Empire might have been compromised. He didn’t wish to risk appearing in a room full of murderers in Hansulé, so he arrived at the nearest city where he knew he’d be safe, purchased as fast a horse as he could and rode it nearly to death getting to Hansulé.
There he had found what Franciezka’s agents had reported to her; a massive fleet at anchor, nearly two hundred ships. He wondered if another hundred had departed since her agents had last reported or if their report had been inaccurate. One night in the local taverns had given him his answer: the initial three hundred had departed southward, as reported, and another hundred had left just the week before, also heading south.
Jim had been left to ponder what madness had gripped the Imperial Keshian Court. Peace had benefited both nations since the ill-fated attempt by Kesh to lay siege to Krondor after the Serpent War. The West from the Far Coast to Krondor had been in shambles after the Emerald Queen’s invasion had driven the Armies of the West back to Nightmare Ridge where at last they had been thrown back.
Pug had forced an armistice down the throats of both sides, effectively severing all ties with the Kingdom, but saving it nevertheless. Now after years of rebuilding, the Kingdom was as strong in the West as they had been before the Emerald Queen’s invasion of the Bitter Sea. War now made no sense whatsoever.
There must be something I’m not seeing, Jim thought as he climbed the rigging. As much as he hated sailors’ work, he was good enough at it that he aroused no suspicion. Getting this berth had been more difficult than anticipated, since the Imperial Keshian Army was involved. They had guards standing at every recruitment position at the docks, and Jim had no doubt agents of the Imperial Intelligence Corps were as well. His current opposite number was the young and very talented Kaseem abu Hazara-Khan, the latest in a line of very wily desert men from the Jal-Pur entrusted with the safety of the Empire.
Jim had liked his father a great deal, but he had come to an untimely demise, one Jim was certain was not natural. All Jim knew was he had had no hand in it, a fact he had made sure to impress on Kaseem. Even to this day, two years later, Jim had no inkling of who had managed to kill the cleverest man he had ever opposed. Even if he had wanted him dead – which he had on more than one occasion – he was uncertain how he might manage it. And without vanity, Jim knew if he couldn’t think of a way, no one else should be able to, either.
Jim didn’t know Kaseem well; he was difficult to read and he had never seen him face-to-face, as he had his father. In Jim’s line of work, one learned of one’s opponents by how they operated their networks, conducted the spy trade, and how many bodies littered the way. The Hazara-Khans, going back to the founder of the Imperial Keshian Intelligence Corps, Abdur Rachman Memo Hazara-Khan, had been adept at keeping bloodshed to a minimum while