forced to lie down and wiggle feet first through the small aperture, but he successfully negotiated the entrance. Owyn went next, and Gorath last, barely clearing the opening.
‘Who uses that thing?’ asked Owyn in a whisper. ‘Children?’
‘Yes,’ said Locklear. ‘The Mockers number many urchins in their ranks and there are dozens of bolt-holes like that all over the city.’
‘Where are we?’ asked Owyn.
‘Use your senses, human,’ said Gorath. ‘Or can’t your breed smell its own stink?’
‘Oh,’ Owyn exclaimed, as the stench of the sewer struck him.
Locklear reached up and pulled shut the trap, leaving them in total darkness.
‘My kind see in darkness better than yours do, Locklear,’ said Gorath, ‘but even we must have some light.’
‘There should be a lantern close by,’ said Locklear. ‘If I can remember the distance … and direction.’
‘What?’ asked Gorath. ‘You don’t know where a light is?’
‘I can help,’ said Owyn. A moment later a faint nimbus of light started to glow around the young man’s hand, and it grew until they could see a dozen paces in all directions.
‘How did you do that?’ asked Locklear.
Owyn held out his left hand. On it was a ring. ‘I took it off Nago. It’s magic.’
‘Which way?’ asked Gorath.
‘This way,’ said Locklear, leading them into the sewers of Krondor.
‘Where are we?’ whispered Owyn.
Locklear lost his sure tone as he said, ‘I think we’re just north of the palace.’
‘You think?’ said Gorath with a snort of contempt.
‘All right,’ said Locklear with a petulant tone. ‘So I’m a little lost. I’ll find—’
‘Your death, quick and messy,’ said a voice from outside the range of Owyn’s light.
Three swords cleared their scabbards as Locklear tried to pierce the gloom beyond the light by force of will.
‘Who be you and what would you in the Thieves’ Highway?’
Locklear cocked his head at the bad attempt at a formal challenge and, judging the owner of the voice to be a youth, he answered, ‘I be Seigneur Locklear and I do whatever I will in the Prince’s sewers. If you’re half as intelligent as you’re trying to sound, you’ll know not to bar our way.’
A young boy stepped forward from the shadows, slender and wearing a tunic too large for him, wrapped around the waist with a rope belt, trousers he had almost outgrown, and sporting a pointed felt cap. He carried a short sword. ‘I’m Limm and fast with a blade. Step any further without my leave and your blood will flow.’
Gorath said, ‘The only thing you’ll do is die, boy, if you don’t stand aside.’
If the towering presence of the moredhel chieftain had any effect on the lad, he hid it as he bravely said, ‘I’ve bested better than you when I was a boy.’ He stepped back, cautiously. ‘And besides, I’ve got five bashers back there waiting for my call.’
Locklear held up his hand to restrain Gorath. ‘You remind me of a young Jimmy the Hand,’ said Locklear. ‘Full of bluster as well as guile. Run off and there’s no need for anyone’s blood to flow.’ Softly to Gorath he said, ‘If he has bashers nearby, we don’t need the trouble.’
‘Jimmy the Hand, is it?’ asked Limm. ‘Well, if you’re friends of Seigneur James, we’ll let you pass. But when you see him, tell him he had better come soon or the deal is off.’ Before Locklear could answer, Limm was deep in shadows, so silently they could barely hear him move. From a distance he said, ‘And watch your step, Locklear who knows Jimmy the Hand. There are nasty customers nearby.’ As the voice faded, Limm added, ‘And you’re completely turned around. Turn to the right at the next culvert, and straight on until you reach the palace.’
Locklear waited, listening for more. But only silence punctuated by the trickling sound of water and the occasional echo of some distant sound in the sewer could be heard.
Gorath said, ‘That was passing strange.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Owyn.
‘More than you know,’ said Locklear. ‘That boy was waiting for my friend James. And James has the death mark on him from the Mockers if he ever trespasses their territory. That was a deal struck by Prince Arutha for James’s life years ago.’
Owyn said, ‘Sometimes agreements change.’
‘Or are broken,’ added Gorath.
Locklear said, ‘Well, we’ll sort this out later. Right now we need to find our way to the palace.’
‘What did he mean by “nasty customers nearby”?’ asked Owyn.
‘I don’t know,’ answered Locklear. ‘I have a feeling if we’re not careful we’ll find out,’ he whispered.
They turned in the direction instructed by Limm and moved to the corner where he had told them to turn. A short way along the indicated route, Gorath said, ‘Someone ahead.’
Owyn put his ring under his arm, causing the light to diminish. ‘Two men,’ whispered Gorath. ‘Wearing black.’
‘Which is why I can’t see them,’ said Locklear.
‘Who are they?’ asked Owyn.
Locklear turned and knew his withering look was lost in the gloom, so he said, ‘Why don’t you just go up and ask them.’
‘If they aren’t the Prince’s men or those Mockers, then they must be enemies,’ said Gorath, stepping forward quickly, his sword ready to deliver a killing blow.
Locklear hesitated a moment, and by the time he started moving, the dark elf was upon the two men. The first turned just in time to see his own death arrive, for Gorath slashed him deeply across the chest and shoulder.
The second man drew his sword and attempted to slash down on Gorath’s head, but Locklear stepped in and parried the blow high, allowing Gorath to run him through. It was over in seconds.
Locklear knelt and examined the two bodies. They wore identical trousers and tunics of black material, and black leather boots. Both men had short swords and one had laid aside a short bow within easy reach. Both men were without purse or pouch, but both wore identical medallions under their tunics.
‘Nighthawks!’ said Locklear.
‘Assassins?’ asked Owyn.
‘But they should have …’ Locklear shook his head. ‘If these two are Nighthawks, I’m Gorath’s grandfather.’
Gorath snorted at the idea, but said, ‘We have heard of your Nighthawks; some were employed by agents of Murmandamus.’
Owyn said, ‘The stories are they had nearly magical abilities.’
‘Stories,’ said Locklear. ‘My friend James faced one on the rooftops of the city when he was no more than a lad of fourteen years and lived to tell the tale.’ Locklear stood. ‘They were good, but no more than other men. But the legend helped them get their price. But these,’ he indicated the two dead men, ‘were not Nighthawks.’
A whistle sounded from down a nearby tunnel. Gorath spun, his sword ready to face another attack. Locklear, however, just put two fingers to his mouth and whistled in return. A moment later a young man stepped into the light. ‘Locky?’ he asked.
‘Jimmy!’ said Locklear as he embraced his old friend. ‘We were just speaking of you.’
James, squire of the Prince’s