by Alexey Pehov
“Have you heard that milord Patin up and died all of a sudden two days ago?” Gozmo asked apropos of nothing as he wiped the beer mugs. He seemed not to notice my sullen expression.
“Really?” I said, expressing my seemingly genuine amazement at the unexpected departure from this life of the duke, who had the strength of all the plow horses in Valiostr and Zagorie combined.
“Yes, yes. They found him with his throat torn out. And the garrinch that guarded his treasure was scratching itself and taking no notice of anybody.”
“Really?” I asked again, completely astonished. “Who would ever have thought there was a garrinch in there? Nobody ever mentioned that to me.”
The innkeeper turned a deaf ear to my rebuke. He knew how to pretend to be absolutely stone deaf, and I must say that sometimes he managed it superbly.
“The usual for you, is it?”
“Yes. Is my table free?”
Gozmo nodded, and I set off past some drunken crooks who were bawling and yelling about something or other, past the seminaked girl singing on the stage, toward the far corner of the large room. I sat down with my back to the wall, facing the entrance to the establishment. Well, I can’t help it, it’s a habit developed over the years.
Immediately, as if by magic, a mug of porter and a plate of meat appeared in front of me. I should tell you that Gozmo’s chef was sometimes visited by genuine inspiration, and at those moments he cooked every bit as well as the lads in the aristocrats’ kitchens. The food and drink were brought by a delightful little serving wench, who winked merrily at me but, catching sight of my perpetual scowl, she snorted and retreated to the kitchen, wiggling her backside angrily and drawing admiring glances from the crooks sitting at the neighboring tables.
I, however, had no time for her undeniable charms right now. The whole city was seething. It was time for me to lie low.
A peasant could live well on fifteen gold pieces for almost a whole year, but it wasn’t a very large sum for me, and I really had to give up working for the next few months. If I was unlucky, someone might just link the duke’s death to the disappearance of the statuette, and the hunt would be on for all thieves everywhere in Avendoom. And then they might haul me in with all the rest. If they could catch me, of course. I had my doubts about the abilities of Frago Lanten’s subordinates. In fact, I didn’t think too highly of the guards in general.
Before I could even take a sip from my mug of thick black beer, a skinny, pale individual suddenly appeared and sat down on the chair facing me without so much as a by-your-leave. I’d never even seen the lad before.
I took an instant dislike to the fellow. His pallor and thinness prompted the thought that he might be a vampire, but of course I was mistaken there. Vampires don’t exist. My uninvited guest was a man. And judging from all appearances, a very dangerous one. Not a single superfluous or unnecessary movement and a chilling gaze of cold appraisal. It wasn’t my first time out in the street, I’d seen plenty of his type before.
I very nearly reached for my crossbow, but stopped myself. Who could tell? Perhaps he simply wanted to chat about the weather.
“I don’t think I asked anyone to join me, did I?” I asked as indifferently as possible.
But my brief moment of tension had not escaped my uninvited guest and he gave a crooked grin.
“Are you Harold?”
“Anything’s possible.” I shrugged and took a gulp of beer.
“I’ve been told to let you know that Markun is not happy.”
“Since when do hired assassins pass on messages from the head of the Guild of Thieves?” I asked sharply, setting my mug down on the table.
“That, Harold, is none of your business,” said Paleface, not in the least put out that I had guessed what he was. “Markun is asking you one last time to join the guild and pay your dues.”
Ah, the guilds, the guilds! The king turns a blind eye to the Guild of Thieves and the Guild of Assassins. For the time being, at least. The official authorities don’t touch these dubious organizations as long as they don’t overreach themselves and they pay their taxes. And it must be admitted that the sums of money paid into the treasury are huge. Almost half of the earnings of the night brethren. And that’s why I’m not in the guild. Why should I make a present to anyone of the gold pieces earned by my almost honest labor?
“I am sorry to disappoint him,” I said, and laughed as loathsomely as I could manage.
Shadow Harold, legendary master thief of Avendoom, who has never once been taken by the guards, does not wish to join the guild.
“I’m a free hunter. And I don’t intend to knuckle under to a fatbellied pickpocket.”
“Very well.” Paleface was not at all perturbed by my refusal and carried on staring indifferently into my eyes. “Is that your final word?”
I nodded, indicating that the conversation was at an end. A deafening silence suddenly descended on the Knife and Ax. The girl stopped singing, the drunken laughter and lively conversations came to a sudden halt. A genuine graveyard, with Gozmo as the cadaver-in-chief. I looked in the direction of the door, and my eyes must have turned square in amazement if even a professional like Paleface did what no experienced assassin should ever do: Forgetting about me, he turned round to see what had happened back there.
A detachment of the municipal guard was standing at the entrance to the inn, clutching their halberds and crossbows in their hands. And no one had even the slightest doubt that the lads were ready to put them to good use at the first glint of a knife anywhere. It was clear that these were no Port City wasters, but soldiers of the Inner City. They were too well fed and well groomed. Definitely not to be provoked. And even the bouncers, whose mothers might have been accused of intimate relations with trolls, moved aside to allow the uninvited guests into the inner sanctum of the world of thieves.
Something very important was about to happen if the guardsmen, whom Gozmo paid off regularly so that they wouldn’t even notice his little establishment and the public that frequented it, had actually come here.
Standing at the head of the orange and black horde was none other than the commander of the municipal guard himself, Baron Frago Lanten. The baron probed the silent room with a short-sighted gaze that eventually picked me out, then he nodded to himself and set off straight toward me.
“Wine,” he growled as he walked past the pale-faced Gozmo, who had finally left the perfectly clean beer mugs in peace.
“Straight away, Your Grace. The very best of everything,” the innkeeper replied obsequiously, recovering slightly from the shock. After all, a man like Lanten doesn’t often visit the modest rats’ holes where thieves gather. The serving wenches immediately started scurrying about, and the general hubbub in the room started up again, but you could feel the apprehensive tension hovering in the air. The girl on the stage started singing again in a trembling voice, squinting sideways at the baron. Dozens of pairs of eyes followed the short man as he walked to my table. At any moment, if he felt like it he could stick anyone who chose not to live according to the law in the Gray Stones—the grimmest and harshest prison in the northern kingdoms.
A few men couldn’t stand it any longer and started moving toward the door. The guard didn’t try to stop them.
“Don’t start celebrating yet,” hissed Paleface. “I’ll get another chance to have a long conversation with you, Harold.”
Then he disappeared, simply evaporating into the gloom as if he had never been there at all.
I breathed out quietly and rubbed my sweaty palms together.
“Harold?” the baron asked, stopping in front of me.
I gazed intently at the short, muscular man in the uniform of the Avendoom guard. His doublet was a lot richer than an ordinary soldier’s. To my mind there was rather too much velvet in it. But that slim, elegant blade from Filand was very much to my liking. For that you could easily buy three establishments every bit as good as the Knife and Ax.
There was no point in
denying anything, and I pointed to the chair on which Paleface had just been sitting.
“Have a seat, Your Grace.”
Gozmo came hurrying over, delivering a bottle of the finest wine, glasses, and hors d’oeuvres in person. Milord waited in silence until it was all on the table and said quietly, “And now clear off. Get under my feet and I’ll see you rot in jail.”
Gozmo left, with repeated bows and assurances concerning his own honesty, almost stumbling into a table as he went.
Without speaking, Frago poured a glass of the red wine made far away in the south, where the Crest of the World meets the steppes of Ungava, and drained it in a single gulp. Then he gave a grunt of satisfaction and set about studying my face. Though we were, so to speak, at daggers drawn and had reason to resent each other, I respected this man. May Sagot strike me dead if I lied.
The baron was honest. He never used underhand stealth, he never humiliated his subordinates, although he kept a tight grip on them. The baron was devoted to the king and he had earned his position for his genuine efforts, not because of money or family ties.
Avendoom had benefited greatly from this man’s appointment as head of the guard, even though it meant hard times for us thieves. The number of crimes was not reduced, of course, but now the cutthroats looked around carefully before setting out on their dark business, to make sure that His Grace was nowhere near at hand. A small, but nonetheless real victory in the eternal battle between the law and crime.
“I can’t say that I’m pleased to meet you,” the baron growled, glaring at me from under his thick, bushy eyebrows. “I’d be delighted to ship you off to the Gray Stones.”
I said nothing. I did have a certain appropriate phrase right there on the tip of my tongue, but I decided to hold it in reserve for later. That evening, at least, I didn’t really want to go to prison.
“Let’s go, Harold.”
“Where to, Your Grace?” I asked. The man had shocked me. “Not to those beloved Gray Stones of yours?”
“No. Not yet anyway.” He glanced at me. “A certain . . . individual wants to have a word with you. I have to deliver you to him.”
Although I tried not to, I couldn’t help casting a glance at the bored guardsmen loitering by the door. I couldn’t handle them. Too many. And there were probably just as many at the back door.
“All the exits are closed off.” The baron seemed to have heard what I was thinking.
I pushed my chair back without speaking and stood up, wrapping myself in my cloak.
“Well, that’s good,” the commander of the guard said quietly and, picking up the unpaid-for bottle of expensive wine in his left hand, he set off toward the door. I followed him, feeling the curious glances of every eye in the inn boring into my back.
3
THE COMMISSION
Standing outside the inn, engulfed by the twilight as thick as cream, was a large carriage, harnessed to a foursome of ash-gray horses of the Doralissian breed. The horses were squinting sideways at the guardsmen and snorting nervously. Humans weren’t the only ones who wanted to spend the night behind the protection of secure walls.
I suddenly noticed that the windows of the carriage were blocked off with thick planks of wood.
An expensive carriage. Not the kind everyone can afford. And a four-in-hand of Doralissian horses cost an incredible amount of money.
We set off along the dark streets, and the only time I bounced was when the wheel ran over a cobblestone jutting out especially high from the surface of the road. The baron didn’t say anything, merely casting occasional gloomy glances in my direction, and I was left with nothing to do but listen to the clip-clopping of hooves from the mounted guardsmen escorting us and try to guess where they were taking me.
Who is it that wants to meet me? It’s obvious straightaway that whoever the lad might be, he must have plenty of influence—since he sent Frago Lanten himself to fetch me. I wonder what this unidentified individual wants from me? Payment for some inconvenience that I’ve caused him? I just hope he isn’t one of the magicians. I don’t want to spend the rest of my days in the skin of a toad or a Doralissian.
I chuckled quietly to myself, attracting the baron’s surly glance. It was hard to say which was worse, the body of a toad or the body of a goat-man. I would probably have chosen the former, because in Avendoom they were less fond of Doralissians than they were of toads. Suddenly the driver stopped the carriage and a pair of zealous guards swung the door open. The cool breath of night struck me in the face. Even in summer it is rather cool in Avendoom—since it is quite close to the Desolate Lands, the blessed heat only visits the city in August, and even then only for a couple of weeks, until the wind from the Cold Sea brings the rains. Valiostr is the most northerly kingdom of Siala, so the weather here leaves a lot to be desired.
“What’s this, then? A brief recreational stroll?” I asked the baron, trying to maintain my presence of mind.
“Stop wrangling with me, Harold. Just do as you’re told and all will be love and affection between us.”
I shrugged and jumped down onto the stone road and surveyed the surroundings. The little street was empty and the dark houses on one side hung over us like the Zam-da-Mort. There was a high wall running along the other side of the street. Right then. That meant we were somewhere on the edge of the Inner City.
Thin, tentative tongues of grayish yellow mist were already creeping out of the municipal drainage system. It was still timid, pressing low against the surface of the street, not yet daring to rise higher. But in a few hours’ time a thick blanket of the mist would cover the city, just as it did every night in June, and hang there until the morning.
On this occasion the darkness in the street was impenetrable, clouds covered the sky with their heavy carcasses, and the only light radiated from the guards’ torches and the oil lamps hanging on the carriage. The guards were peering hard into the darkness, holding their crossbows at the ready.
“Is he clean? No weapons?” Frago asked.
The guards hastily patted me down once again, took the lock picks out of the secret pocket on my belt, then extracted a slim razor from the top of my boot and nodded.
“Clean, Your Grace. Clean as a Doralissian on his way home after a business meeting with a dwarf. Yargi knows the thieves’ tricks.”
The guards on the horses burst into laughter. “Enough of that!” Lanten barked irritably. “Blindfold him and let’s get going.”
The guard who called himself Yargi took a strip of heavy, dark cloth out of his pocket and blindfolded me with it. Hands took hold of me by the arms, shoved me into the carriage, slammed the door shut, and the carriage set off again. I raised my hands to ease the pressure of the cloth against my eyes.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Harold,” the baron said straight into my ear, speaking very politely.
“Where are you taking me, Your Grace? Or is it a secret?”
“A state secret, you could say. But for now keep quiet and be patient. Don’t make me angry.”
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but what will happen if I make you angry?”
The darkness had made me talkative and sharpened my tongue.
“If you don’t come to an agreement with the man we’re going to see, then you’ll find yourself in my hands. . . . And I’ll be angry.”
I decided it was better to be patient and say nothing for a while. It would be no problem for me to jump out of the carriage that was dashing through the streets and try to escape. I would have a few precious moments before the guards realized what had happened. But I didn’t really want to risk playing tag with crossbow bolts.
Meanwhile the carriage was bowling through the city at an excellent speed. The driver was evidently very skillful and he did not wish to spare the carriage, the horses, or the passengers. Now my entire backside took a battering on the potholes. But the baron wasn’t complaining. That must mean there was a good reason for all the hurry, and I gritted my teeth and tri
ed to sit up straight when we heeled over on the bends. Actually, just once I did allow myself the pleasure of giving way, allowing inertia to throw me against Frago, and lifting the purse off his belt. I must say there wasn’t much in it, though.
Eventually we arrived. I was taken out and handed over to some men who took a tight grip on my elbows. Then they led me off somewhere. There was nothing I could do but move my feet, stumbling every time there were steps up or down.
All the time the baron was snorting behind me. Corridors, stairways, rooms, halls. Sounds. My feet walked across a bare stone floor, raising a hollow, resonant echo from the slabs of Isilian marble; they stamped across squeaking wooden floorboards. I had long ago lost count of the number of steps and stairways and bends in the countless corridors of the huge building through which I was being led. Torches hissed and sputtered close to my ear; sometimes we met someone as we walked along, but I could hear them hastily move aside, making way for us.
Finally a door opened and I felt the dense pile of a carpet under my feet. Without seeing it, I couldn’t say how much it was worth, but it had probably been made in the Sultanate, and that certainly meant a fair amount of money.
“Remove his blindfold.”
Frago, who was standing behind me, removed the damned rag from my eyes. For a brief moment I squeezed them shut against the bright light coming from a fireplace and dozens of candles and torches burning in the small room.
Then I studied the room critically, evaluating at a glance the Sultanate carpets, the candlesticks, the costly furniture made of timber found in the Forests of I’alyala, right beside the Crest of the World, the complete set of knight’s armor made by dwarf master craftsmen, which was standing in the farthest corner of the room. Not to mention the goblets and the tableware, which I think were all made of gold. Mmm. I could really cut loose if only I could have this place to myself for just a few minutes.
Only instead of one person, I saw several.
