Jimmy the Hand
The whole of the magnificent Riftwar Cycle by bestselling author Raymond E. Feist, master of magic and adventure, now available in ebookJimmy the Hand, boy thief of Krondor, lived in the shadows of the city. The sewers were his byways and a flea-ridden, rat-infested cellar his home. Although gifted beyond his peers, he was still but a nimble street urchin, a pickpocket with potential. Until the day he met Prince Arutha.Aiding the Prince in his rescue of Princess Anita from imprisonment by Duke Guy du Bas-Tyra, Jimmy runs afoul of Black Guy's secret police. Given the choice of disappearing on his own or in a weighted barrel at the bottom of Krondor's harbor, Jimmy flees the only home he's ever known, venturing south to the relatively safe haven of Land's End. Suspecting that the rural villagers have never encountered a lad with his talent and nose for finding wealth—other people's wealth—he's fairly optimistic about his broadening horizons. But Jimmy is completely unprepared for what greets him.For Land's End is home to others who tread the crooked path, and more, to a much darker secret: a dangerous presence unknown even to the local thieves and smugglers. And Jimmy's youthful bravado and courage will plunge him deep into the maw of chaos and even—if he isn't careful—death.
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RAYMOND E. FEIST
&
STEVE STIRLING
Jimmy the Hand
Voyager An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 77–85 Fulham Palace Road, Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
Published by Voyager 2003
First published in Great Britain by Voyager 2003
Copyright ©Raymond E. Feist & Steve Stirling 2003
The Authors assert the moral right to be identified as the authors of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2012 ISBN 9780007370238
Version: 2014-07-31
To my readers:
Without your enthusiasm I’d be selling cars for a living.
Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
Raymond E. Feist
To Jan … and to Ray, Will, and Joel: the only guys who could have brought this off.
S.M. Stirling
Table of Contents
Men cursed as they grappled.
Jimmy the Hand slipped eellike between knots of fighting men on the darkened quayside. Steel glittered in torch- and lantern-light, shining in ruddy-red arcs as horsemen slashed at the elusive Mockers who strove to hold them back. Only seconds more were needed for Prince Arutha and Princess Anita to make their escape, and the fight had reached the frenzied violence of desperation. Screams of rage and pain split the night, accompanied by the iron hammering of shod hooves throwing up sparks as they smashed down on stone, to the counterpoint of the clangour of steel on steel.
Bravos and street-toughs struggled against trained soldiers, but the soldiers’ horses slipped and slithered on the slick boards and stones of the docks and the flickering light was even more uncertain than the footing. Knives stabbed upward and horses shied as hands gripped booted feet and heaved Bas-Tyran menat-arms out of the saddle. The harsh iron-and-salt smell of blood was strong even against the garbage stink of the harbour, and a horse screamed piteously as it collapsed, hamstrung. The rider’s leg was caught in the stirrup, crushed beneath his mount, and he screamed as the horse thrashed, then fell silent as ragged figures swarmed over him.
Jimmy fell flat under the slash of a sword, rolled unscathed between the flailing hooves of a war-horse scrabbling to find better footing, tripped one of the men-at-arms who was fighting dismounted against three Mockers, then dashed down the length of the dock, his feet light on the boards.
At the end of the quay he threw himself flat on the rough splintery wood to hail the longboat below:
‘Farewell!’ he called to the Princess Anita.
She turned toward his voice, her lovely face little more than a pale blur in the pre-dawn light. But he knew that her sea-green eyes would be wide with astonishment.
I’m glad I came to say goodbye, he thought, an unfamiliar sensation squeezing at his chest below the breastbone. It’s worth a little risk to life and limb.
He grinned at her, but nervously; the fight with Jocko Radburn’s men was heating up and his back felt very exposed. It wouldn’t be long before the Mockers broke and ran; standup fights weren’t their style.
Another, taller figure stood in the longboat. ‘Here,’ Prince Arutha called. ‘Use it in good health!’
A rapier in its scabbard flew up to his hand. He snatched it out of the air and rolled over, just in time to avoid a kick from one of Radburn’s bully-boys. Jimmy rolled again as the man pursued him, heavy-booted foot raised to stamp on him like an insect. Letting the sword go he reached up and grabbed toe and heel with crossed hands, giving it a vicious twist that set the bully roaring and twisting to keep it from being broken. That put him off-balance, and a kick placed with vicious precision toppled him screaming into the water. His gear dragged him under before the echoes of his scream could die.
