Jimmy the Hand by Raymond E. Feist, S. M. Stirling Read Free Book Online

a
money-changer.
    The changer
worked out of a narrow shop in an alley, denoted by a pair of scales
on a sign above the door; the paint was so faded that only a hint of
gold peeped through the grime. Jimmy hopped over the trickle of filth
down the centre of the alley, nodded to the basher who stood just
outside, polishing the brickwork with his shoulder, and pushed
through the door. The basher would find a reason to delay any citizen
from entering the shop whenever a Mocker was inside.
    Ference, the
money-changer, looked up and said, ‘Ah, Jimmy! What can I do
for you?’
    Jimmy reached
inside his tunic and pulled out his coin pouch, and with a quick flip
of his wrist, rolled half a dozen coins on the counter. The others
were safely hidden on top of a ceiling beam in his room.
    ‘Gold?’
Ference said, looking at the thumbnail-sized coins Jimmy shoved
across the smooth wood of the table.
    The
money-changer was a middle-aged man with a thin, lined face and the
sort of squint you got from fretting about your strongbox when you
should be sleeping. He dressed with the sort of sombre respectability
a prosperous storekeeper might affect.
    ‘Getting
ambitious, are you, Jimmy lad?’
    ‘Honestly
earned,’ Jimmy said, ‘for a change.’ And it was
even true, for once.
    He kept a close
eye on the scales as Prince Arutha’s coins turned into a
jingling heap of worn and much less conspicuous silver and copper.
The Upright Man’s regulations kept men like Ference moderately
honest—broken arms were the usual first-time penalty for
changers or fences shorting Mockers, and then it got really nasty—but
it never hurt to be self-reliant.
    ‘There,’
the changer said at last. ‘That’ll attract a lot less
attention.’
    ‘Just what
I thought,’ Jimmy said, smiling a little to himself.
    He bought a
money-belt to hold it—too big a jingling purse was conspicuous
too—and wandered out into the street.
    ‘Pork
pies! Pork pies!’ he heard, and the words brought a flood of
saliva into his mouth; he had missed breakfast. ‘Two of your
best, Mistress Pease,’ he said grandly.
    The pie-seller
put down the handles of her pushcart and brought out two; they were
still warm, and the smell made his nose twitch. What was more,
Mistress Pease’s pork pies were actually made from pork, not of
rabbit, cat, or the even less savoury concoctions you got from some
vendors. He bit into one.
    ‘Feeling
prosperous, I see,’ she said, as he handed over four coppers.
    ‘Hard work
and clean living, Mistress,’ he replied; she shook all over as
she laughed.
    Well, a thin
cook wouldn’t be much of an advertisement, would she? he
thought.
    He washed the
pies down with a flagon of cider bought from a nearby vendor, and sat
in the sun belching contentedly, his back against the stone-coping of
a well.
    He was just
licking his fingers when a pebble hit the top of his head.
    Ouch, he
thought, and looked up.
    Long Charlie’s
cadaverous face peered around a gable. His hands moved: Report to
Mocker’s Rest, he said in the signing cant. Right now.
No delay, no excuses.
    Jimmy swigged
back the rest of the cider and hastily returned his flagon to the
vendor with polite thanks. Then he headed for the nearest alley.
    Once in the
sewers he moved at a confident jog—even through the pitch-black
places, of which there were many—and passed the guards the
Mockers had stationed at various locations, who seemed unusually
alert today. Not that they were ever less than wide-awake; sleeping
or getting drunk on guard duty could get you badly hurt or seriously
dead.
    The smell was
homelike, though ripe; Jimmy flicked his toe aside and sent a rat
more belligerent than most flying through the air. Its squeal ended
with a sodden thud—you had to be careful about the ones that
didn’t run away, chances were they were sick with something.
Jimmy had seen a man foaming at the mouth from a rat bite and it
wasn’t a sight he would quickly forget.
    The Rest was
like a kicked