by Alexey Pehov
“The gentleman would like you to clear off,” I growled at the servant.
I started strolling round the hall with a bored expression on my face. People looked askance at me, as if I had brought a half-decomposed cat into the hall and dumped it in the main dish of the evening.
A woman passed me with her skirts rustling, almost rubbing up against me. Her face was hidden behind a veil.
“I beg your pardon, milord.”
“Yes, of course, there isn’t much room. I understand.”
Another couple of steps, and the whole thing was repeated all over again, only this lady dropped her fan at my feet.
“I beg your pardon, milord, I am so clumsy.”
I had to bend down, pick the fan up off the floor, and hand it to her. She smiled sweetly and dropped a curtsey, offering her plunging neckline to my delighted gaze. It cost me an almighty effort to leave milady alone. But if I hadn’t the goblin would have given me the sharp edge of his tongue.
A few steps farther on a third milady appeared beside me, flashing her eyes flirtatiously in my direction.
“What is your name, milord?”
“Take no notice, my dear dralan! I’ll rescue you!” A heavy hand fell on my shoulder and pulled me away. “Pardon my familiarity, but I am only a baron, my domains border on the Border Kingdom, and we are taught to use a sword much earlier than etiquette. Yes, and I think you are no great devotee of etiquette, either! However, allow me in any case to introduce myself. Baron Oro Gabsbarg at your service!”
I bowed reservedly.
He was a huge man, almost as big as Honeycomb, with a shaggy black beard, little black eyes, a red face, and a thunderous voice. What he resembled most was a bear. And like everyone else in this hall, beside his own crest (a black cloud belching out lightning on a green field) he had a brooch in the form of a nightingale pinned to his clothes.
“What do you think of this wine?” my new acquaintance asked me unexpectedly.
I told him the absolute truth.
“It’s swill.”
The baron laughed deafeningly and in his excessive enthusiasm he thumped me on the back, almost fracturing my spine.
“Ah, I like you! I’ve always said if only we had a lot more dralans in our kingdom, soon there wouldn’t be a single namby-pamby left in the nobility. The moment you appeared in the hall, everyone said you were stupid and ignorant. But I can see that’s not true!”
“Who said that?” I asked, trying to get my breath back after the baron’s bearlike blow.
“All of these carrion-eaters,” said the baron, gesturing round the hall without the slightest embarrassment. “What do you think they all do with their time, my dear fellow?” Oro Gabsbarg’s little black eyes glinted in fury. “Tittle-tattle! They don’t have anything better to do. These popinjays who dare to call themselves men pour scent on their handkerchiefs!”
I thought the baron was going to vomit on my doublet there and then.
“Can you imagine it? But I can see that you’re a different kind, better than these puppy dogs,” Oro Gabsbarg boomed contentedly and chuckled into his beard as he winked at me. “Well, didn’t I just save you from those cunning little serpents?”
“I beg your pardon?” I didn’t understand what he meant.
“From those demons in skirts! How did you like the way I shooed them off? The little widows. Their main pastime is dragging a new man into their bed. Well of course, bed is an essential and important business, but before you get round to doing your business, these ladies, who would be better called harlots, will stuff you with poison right up to your … What I was going to say is that all their husbands preferred to be stabbed to death by Wild Boars and Oburs. You must agree, it’s better than putting up with a rotten bitch.”
I nodded in agreement. The baron seemed to be in need of a grateful listener, and he had found one.
“The nobles are getting petty, really petty,” the giant sighed plaintively. “They’re not at all what they used to be. The nobility haven’t had real blood running through their veins for ages; it’s as thin as water. Of course, with the exception of you and me,” he added hastily.
“Of course.”
Despite his loud voice and not entirely elegant manners, I was beginning to like this man.
“How many swords has your duke got?”
Oro Gabsbarg’s question stumped me. How many swords did Duke Ganet Shagor really have? And what kind of swords? The kind you hang on your belt, or the kind you command in battle?
Seeing my confusion, the baron uttered the bearlike roar that was his normal laugh.
“That’s what sitting stuck at Sea Cliffs all the time gets you! Your lands are peaceful, Zagraba’s a long way away, and you can’t even remember how many warriors your lord has!”
“It can’t be helped, my friend,” I said with a shrug.
“Friend?” The baron gave me a curious look. “Yes, why not!”
He grabbed hold of my hand and crushed it in his palm. Thank Sagot, by some miracle my hand was still whole and undamaged after that handshake.
“And how do you feel about the Nightingales, dear fellow?”
“Er-er…,” I began warily.
“You don’t feel anything,” Shadow Harold’s new friend, Oro Gabsbarg, concluded impassively, reading the answer in my eyes. “I confess from the very bottom of my heart,” he whispered, leaning down to my ear, “I feel the same. But mum’s the word, all right? Sh-sh-sh-sh!”
“Then what’s that nightingale doing on your doublet?”
“Oh, you northerners,” the baron murmured wearily. “Times are hard, dear fellow. My ancestral castle of Farahall is not very far away from Zagraba. Of course, there are still the lands of Milord Algert Dalli, Buttress of the Throne and Keeper of the Western Border of the Border Kingdom, but the Firstborn still manage to get through even as far as me. This year alone we wiped out two detachments of orcs, but a third one completely massacred one of my villages and then disappeared into the woods. I have a hundred and fifty warriors at my castle, plus another hundred scattered about in patrols. There aren’t enough swords, the orcs find breaches in our defenses. There are rumors that the Hand of the Orcs is gathering an army. And so, my friend, I’d gladly be a butterfly, never mind a nightingale, if only Balistan Pargaid would give me fighting men!”
“I understand.”
“You don’t understand a thing, my dear dralan!” Oro Gabsbarg thundered with unexpected fury. “Pardon my harsh tone, but trying to tell you about our troubles is like trying to explain to a blind man what a catapult looks like! Your duke’s lands are too far away from the damned forest, you cannot feel or understand the threat that constantly hangs over those of us who live in the Borderland. Since the Spring War the orcs have stayed put in the Golden Forest, but nobody’s patience lasts forever, and any lesson is eventually forgotten.”
He frowned.
“I’ve written to His Majesty three times and asked him to send me men. I’m rich enough to feed three hundred additional soldiers, but the king hasn’t replied. I don’t think he’s to blame; the letters might not have reached him, or got lost. You know yourself how easy it is to lose a letter. My men were not admitted to the palace, they’re too unimportant to be allowed to tramp across all that marble! And I can’t get to the capital, I can’t leave the lands of my ancestors for long. Not in times like these … I only came away for this gathering because I was relying on getting the count’s help, but obviously I was wrong. The border is uneasy, and if anything happens, we won’t be able to hold out.… So, instead of experienced warriors, I have to make do with my own militia raised from the local villages and mercenaries. Ganet Shagor is a relative of the king, isn’t he?”
“A distant one.”
“Do something for me, will you? If you’re in the capital, have the duke tell Stalkon about this conversation of ours. The king’s an intelligent man, he must realize that our southern border is coming apart at the seams.”
&nbs
p; “But there are the garrisons—”
“A bunch of idle, drunken guardsmen!” Oro Gabsbarg replied derisively. “Decades of peace have completely undermined discipline! A quarter of the fortresses are standing empty. And in another quarter of them the soldiers don’t even know how to hold a sword. Yes, I’m prejudiced, yes there are some garrisons where they still haven’t forgotten what orcs are, but the situation is de-plor-a-ble. Absolutely deplorable. If, Sagra forbid, anything should happen, they’ll push us back to the Iselina, or even further. Do you understand me?”
I nodded. I was sure that in Avendoom they didn’t know any of this. Or, at least, the king didn’t. Everybody thought that since the Spring War the border of the kingdom was unassailable and securely defended against incursions from the land of forests.
If the king found out how things really stood, heads would roll.
“Will you tell the duke what I said?”
“At the first opportunity,” I replied quite sincerely. “And not just the duke, but the king himself. Just give us time to get back to Avendoom.”
The baron’s dark eyes were still fixed on me.
“I swear it.”
“Wonderful! Thank you, my friend, I’ll never forget this! Er-er, excuse me, dralan, but my wife wants me. You can see the way she’s looking at me. She’s a handsome enough woman, but the trouble is that she’s too quick with her hands. Let me tell you a secret: She has a magnificent spiked mace. I swear by all the gods, I lose three duels out of five to her! So you can understand.… If you’re ever in my parts, you must come and visit. Farahall is at your service!”
The baron bowed awkwardly and left me.
Well, the things that are going on in our kingdom!
Just then one of the wanton ladies started taking an interest in Eel. I went dashing to help him out, but someone else got there ahead of me: An old woman holding a little shaggy dog in her arms came to the Wild Heart’s assistance. She brushed the latest little widow aside as if she simply wasn’t there.
The seductress hissed something scurrilous through her delightful teeth to express her dissatisfaction and went on her way, greatly offended. The reason she left was clear enough: Milady was only a marchioness, she had a little coat of arms on a chain, but granny had an entire duchess’s crown. The forces were unevenly matched.
“These young people nowadays! We used to have time for romance, time for courting, but nowadays? All they want is…”
And then the nice old lady pronounced a phrase that would have made a sailor blush. Eel’s new acquaintance was certainly colorful, I would even go so far as to say amusing. Her black dress hung on her as loosely as on a coat hanger and her purple wig looked like some kind of misunderstanding. Her wrinkled face was covered with a layer of white powder as thick as a finger, and this charming get-up was rounded off by a well-fed little doggy with a blue silk ribbon round its neck.
“Countess Ranter at your service.”
I wonder why everybody’s so keen to offer their services today?
“I…”
“Oh, don’t bother yourself, duke. I know perfectly well who you are. But then, so does everyone in this hall.”
“The gossipers?” I put in, remembering what the baron had said as I came to Eel’s assistance.
I earned a rather disdainful glance from the dear old lady.
“Is that what Oro the bear told you? What was he talking about with you for so long? But then, don’t bother to answer, dralan, even my shaggy little Tobiander knows, don’t you, my little one?” the countess cooed, addressing the lap dog, which was drooling in its sleep. “What can that beer-soaked barbarian possibly discuss? Nothing but swords, battles, and stupid orcs that don’t really exist. Isn’t that right, my little darling?”
“You don’t believe in orcs, countess?”
“I do. But Tobiander is so impressionable! By the way, you look a lot younger than I thought you were, duke!”
“Really! You flatter me.”
“Yes, when I saw you last, about forty years ago, you were marching around gravely under the table with a wooden sword in your hand. But now you don’t look a day over thirty. Do northerners posses the secret of eternal youth?”
I gave a forced laugh. Eel remained icily calm. This damned old woman had seen the real duke! Even if he was only an infant at the time!
Don’t worry, Harold! The duke has lived like a hermit, Harold! No one will recognize him, Harold! I’m with you, Harold!
May the demons gobble up Kli-Kli and his brilliant little ideas!
“My youthfulness must come from my ancestors, countess.”
“Yes, and by the way, about them! You’re not at all like your father. Not in the slightest! And I can’t see a single feature of my dear second cousin in you!”
Her second cousin? Ah, that would be Eel’s supposed mother. I quickly ran through the duke’s family tree on his mother’s side in my mind. Yes, that was it! There was an intersection with a branch of the Ranter family. A distant connection, but it was there.
“These are questions you had better put to my mother, dear countess.”
“And how, may I ask? She has been dead a long time!”
Oops! Time to close down the conversation.
“Yes, a great loss,” I put in, taking Eel by the elbow. “But allow us to take our leave, we have a lot of business to attend to.”
And before she could say another word, we set off toward the broad marble stairway at the opposite end of the hall. I could feel the old lady’s stare of amazement drilling into my back.
Never mind, she’ll survive. And anyway, what did she expect from a dralan so recently separated from his plow? Polite manners?
I heard laughter break out on my left. Of course, it was Kli-Kli amusing the noble gentlemen. The jester was taking his work seriously, and all those dolled-up peacocks were chortling just like any ordinary commoners. The goblin sang songs, juggled three full glasses of wine, and asked riddles. All the jokes were too stupid for my taste, but they were a resounding success with the nobility.
“Upstairs,” I said to Eel. “We’ll check what’s up there.”
We walked up the stairs to the second floor and found ourselves on a balcony that ran right round the hall and provided a magnificent view. Two corridors started from the same point, leading into the depths of the building. The one nearest to me contained a lot of paintings in huge gilded frames, an entire portrait gallery, in fact.
Out of curiosity I walked up to the first canvas. Staring out at me from the picture with a sardonic expression was Count Balistan Pargaid in person. The next painting showed a man who was a copy of Pargaid. No doubt it was his father. I took another step in order to see the count’s grandfather, and suddenly felt a strange tickling in my stomach. I started wondering what could have caused this nuisance, but then I remembered what Miralissa had said about the Key and the sensation I should feel.
The Key! I swear by Sagot, the Key was somewhere near!
“I felt something. Eel, cover me in case anything happens!”
I strolled on down the corridor, moving farther and farther away from the Nightingales’ festivities, and found myself alone with just pictures, from which Balistan Pargaid’s numerous ancestors gazed out at me.
The tickling in my stomach grew stronger. The Key was calling to me, luring me. I almost thought I could hear words.
“Here I am! Come quick! The bonds are calling you!”
There was not much farther left to go. The artifact was behind one of two doors on each side of the final portrait in the corridor. I walked up to them and stopped to examine the portrait, which had caught my attention. It cost me an effort of will not to gasp out loud.
The portrait was old. Very old. I could tell that from the way the paint had darkened, and the artist’s style. Assessing the picture with the strictly professional eye of a master thief who has not disdained the theft of a few works of art in his time, I can state with certainty that the canvas was at l
east five hundred years old and, to judge from his costume, the man depicted in it had lived at least fifteen hundred years ago.
The man in the picture was over fifty years old, thin, with gray hair at his temples and gray streaks in his neat little beard. He had no mustache. His brown eyes gazed at me in genial derision. And I knew this fellow or, rather, I had seen him, even though he lived at a time when Ranneng was no more than a small village and Avendoom did not even exist.
Where have I seen this gentleman! But of course, in a dream! The dream in which this man killed the dwarf master-craftsman and tried to take possession of the Key, but met his death from an elfin dagger. I recall that he had a golden nightingale embroidered on his doublet.
So this was who Balistan Pargaid reminded me of! The family likeness between the present-day servant of the Master and the man whose life ended in the Mountains of the Dwarves was striking! What was his name, now …
“Suovik Pargaid,” a quiet voice said behind my back.
I looked round. The master of the house was standing behind me. I hadn’t even heard him walk up to me, although the floor was made of slabs of marble and not covered with a Sultanate carpet.
“I beg your pardon, milord. I saw the picture and was unable to overcome my curiosity,” I said lamely.
“You have walked quite a long way, dralan,” Balistan Pargaid said with a rather unpleasant laugh. “A-ah, here is our good duke!”
Fortunately Eel had sensed that something was wrong and he appeared from round the corner of the corridor.
“I trust that Dralan Par has not offended your ancestors, count? He has an interest in antiquity…”
“Oh, indeed?” the count asked.
Since when does an uncouth lummox like him take any interest in antiquity? said his eyes.
“Tell me, count, who is the subject of this portrait?” Eel asked, hastily switching the conversation to a less contentious subject.
“You do honor to my ancestors, Your Lordship! This is Suovik Pargaid, as I have already said. The third of the Pargaid line. Unfortunately, one fine day he set out for the Mountains of the Dwarves and never returned.”
