LITMIR.BIZ

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never slipped the old man’s porous memory, even when his recall of deeds performed was vague.

      They turned, watching as Neville conducted a conversation with someone who wasn’t there. Jimmy interrupted the conversation and lured Neville out of the Rest by pouring out a stream of raw red wine that Neville hastened to catch in his mouth. When they were outside Jimmy stoppered the skin.

      ‘Lead us,’ he said.

      The old beggar smacked his lips, then rubbed his hands over his face and neck and licked up the drops of wine he collected from his fingers.

      Jimmy ostentatiously swung the skin over his shoulder.

      ‘Whenever you’re ready,’ he said.

      ‘That’s it,’ Neville said.

      The three Mockers crouched, straddling the stream of foulness that ran down the centre of the sewer. Ahead, an oval opening in a wall poured its own tributary into the fetid stream; broad streaks of glistening nitre down the brick showed that the trickle had been larger once.

      ‘Took long enough,’ Larry said sourly.

      Jimmy shrugged. Not all of Neville’s madness was an act; they’d backtracked more times than Jimmy cared to remember with the old man whining about how thirsty he was. But the young thief had been adamant; no wine until they found the place.

       If he’s like this half sober, we’d never see daylight again if I’d let him get drunk.

      ‘Are you sure this is it?’ Jimmy asked dubiously.

      As he’d said, the tunnel was partially collapsed. Rubble splayed out in an incline into the main sewer, giving them easy access, but the air that blew towards them from above was more foul than the beggar himself. Larry said, ‘Something’s died up there!’

      Neville ignored the comment to answer Jimmy’s question. ‘Yes I’m sure,’ he snapped; his lips worked angrily and one discoloured snag of a tooth showed. ‘You’d been payin’ attention you’d know it!’

      The old coot’s right, Jimmy acknowledged unhappily. They’d passed signs that warned they were approaching the underpinnings of the keep.

      ‘Phew!’ Larry said and choked as he stuck head and shoulders into the gap. ‘You can’t mean it! We can’t go in there! A snake couldn’t get in there!’

      Jimmy was definitely in sympathy with Larry. He tossed the wineskin to the beggar who hurried off without demanding the rest of his pay. He grimaced as he watched Noxious Neville scurry into the darkness, then climbed the rubble and thrust the torch through a gap.

      ‘Look, it gets broader past here,’ he said. ‘And this rubble’s easy enough to move.’ He levered a handful aside, then wiped his hand on his breeches. Good thing I was going to buy new ones anyway.

      ‘We could clear enough to get through in less than an hour, even if we take care not to make any noise. After that it’s easy enough, for folk our size. We’re not looking to ride a horse through, after all.’

      The torch flickered and dimmed in a slightly stronger gust of air and Jimmy pushed himself back and staggered, retching, away from the pile of rock and earth.

      He shook his head, his eyes streaming. ‘You’re right, only sheer desperation would get me in there. And even then …’

      Three extremely wealthy merchants sat across the desk from the acting governor of the city. The men were members of the powerful Merchants’ Guild – a body that included the most wealthy men in the city, along with representatives of the other important guilds: tanners, smiths, shipwrights, carters and others. After the authority of the Prince’s Court and the temples, the Merchants’ Guild was the most influential faction in the principality. Too many nobles in the Kingdom owed debts to or did business with the more powerful members of the Guild. Crops didn’t come to market from outlying estate farms if the teamsters didn’t drive wagons. Dock warehouses filled up with goods that were headed nowhere if the dockworkers refused to load them on the ships. Originally begun as a body to adjudicate disagreements between the different guilds and independent merchants, they had evolved over the years into a voice for the merchant class in the halls of power. The Guild’s co-operation was vital to the success of del Garza’s plans, or at the very least he needed to ensure they were not in opposition to him.

      The three maintained equally supercilious expressions while their eyes, glittering in the candlelight, were fixed on del Garza’s every move. They waited for his attention with dignified restraint, ignoring the draughts that moved the wall hangings, barely moving to draw their cloaks tighter around their shoulders.

      Del Garza continued to write, scratching away at an only moderately important document, fully cognizant of how rarely these gentlemen displayed such patience. He was enjoying this little exercise of power. Indeed, this was for his pleasure; the next part of the evening’s endeavours would be for his lord’s advantage.

      He finished writing, sanded the document and shook it, then laid it aside and turned to look at the men seated opposite him. ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said, his voice coldly insincere.

      Marcellus Varney, a shipper of Quegan ancestry, raised an eyebrow. He was a bull-necked man who had obviously spent his youth in hard labour. Now, in his middle years, there was still muscle under the rich man’s fat. ‘We were not invited,’ he said precisely. ‘I was under the impression that we were arrested.’ His entire attitude spoke of distaste.

      ‘Nevertheless,’ the acting governor said with great politeness, ‘you could have resisted.’ He tipped his head to the side and opened his hands. ‘No, no, you must allow me to thank you for your co-operation.’

      ‘Get on with it,’ the shipper said, his tone flat, his eyes resentful.

      Del Garza glanced at each of them, then made an acquiescent gesture.

      ‘As you wish, gentlemen.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘You are, no doubt, aware of the special orders and state of emergency I am about to declare in Krondor. I’ve submitted a copy of the order to your guild and I expect you’ve had the day to ponder it.’

      The three men shifted in their chairs. It amused him; they might almost have rehearsed it, the timing was so mutual.

      ‘I invited you here tonight to see if there was anything I could do to gain your support. Times ahead will be difficult and I want to ensure that the most respected voices in the Merchants’ Guild speak in favour of the necessity for these acts.’ That’s got their attention, he thought with an inner smile. A little flattery beside intimidation did wonders.

      The gentlemen focused on him as though they believed he cared about their opinion. Which, of course, he did, as long as it was in agreement with his.

      Rufus Tuney, a grain merchant with six critically located mills around the city, grimaced, then waved a hand somewhat languidly. He was a foppish man who tended to wear excessive amounts of lace and powder, and a cloying cloud of spices and lilac scent surrounded him wherever he went. ‘The new regulations you have proposed are not without merit,’ he commented. ‘The trouble is they seem … somewhat excessive.’ He looked at the acting governor with raised brows. ‘Even if the three of us were wholeheartedly in support of your position –’ he gave a delicate shrug, ‘– of what use are a mere three votes?’

      ‘Do not allow that to be a consideration, gentlemen,’ del Garza said, his voice hard and flat. ‘What you must consider are your own advantages in the matter.’

      Silence greeted his remark and del Garza could see them resisting the urge to glance at one another.

      ‘Advantage?’ Varney queried.

       I expected him to be the one to ask that question.

      The third merchant, a spice trader named Thaddius Fleet, shifted in his seat. He was a nondescript man, given to well-made but simple garments. ‘See here, del Garza. What exactly are you proposing?’

      And

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