Shadow Prowler

by Alexey Pehov

Evening was coming on, and I hurried to reach the City of Magicians before all the shops closed. Otherwise I would have to fight whoever lived behind the magic wall with my bare hands.

  8

  CITY OF MAGICIANS

  The inner yard of the cathedral was empty; all the faithful had gone home long ago. As I walked toward the exit, I cast a sideways glance at Sagot’s pedestal. Just as I expected, the beggar was long gone, and my gold piece with him.

  Even in these troubled times the City of Magicians presented a very colorful spectacle.

  The wide streets were lined with houses that displayed fanciful architecture, each one like a miniature palace, with a bright-colored tiled roof, lancet windows, and fancy little towers. And every house and every street strove to outdo all of its neighbors, upstaging them with its own prim, tidy beauty.

  It was evening, and the lamps on the streets were burning with flames of different colors—pale blue, red, crimson, green, poisonous yellow, and orange. The lamps were magical, and they were always lit every night, no matter what happened in the city. Yet another wonder of Avendoom, spoken of at every crossroads in this world—the lamps lit up on their own, as soon as evening started drawing in, and they went out in the morning with the first rays of sunlight.

  On that evening the streets of the City of Magicians were absolutely jam-packed with people. Spontaneous drunken revelry flared up on all sides, like forest fires. The people were celebrating. For a short time at least the citizens of Avendoom had been liberated from the terrors of the night and thoughts of the army of the Nameless One. They were all singing the praises of the Order and Archmagician Artsivus.

  At long last the magicians had apparently succeeded in driving the fearsome beasts of the night out of Avendoom.

  I merely chuckled. There was no way I was going to take offense at Artsivus for his enterprise in usurping the glorious role of vanquisher of demons. I had no use for that glory myself anyway. I was simply very amused by the move, which was worthier of sly merchants than the master of the high and mighty Order. I wondered how many similar glorious “occasions of victory” the magicians had been able to claim as their own in order to reinforce their own position. Never mind, it was none of my business.

  The wide Street of the Sparks was overflowing with magical pictures. Every shop there felt obliged to outdo the one next door by creating more magical illusions to attract as many customers as possible. Above one little shop bright orange letters appeared, and then were transformed into a flock of illusory pigeons. Flapping their wings, the birds soared up into the evening sky, fused together into a small white cloud that sank down to the roof of the shop, and then turned back into letters again.

  The people in the street took absolutely no notice of these wonders. There were more impressive things than that to be seen here. For instance, the sight of bolts of illusory lightning slaying an illusory ogre could have kept you enthralled for a year at least.

  I walked straight through an illusion of a dragon and found myself in front of a perfectly ordinary-looking house. There weren’t any showers of fiery rain or horrific monsters or magicians in brightly glowing silver cloaks on show here. Never mind that—there wasn’t even a shop sign. This little trading establishment didn’t need to attract simpleminded clients with more money than sense. And the prices here were so high that not many people were willing to buy.

  But people in the know came here, to this modest little establishment—they didn’t go to the shops bursting at the seams with magical baubles and bright-colored phantoms on the Street of the Sparks.

  I pushed the door, and the little bell jangled merrily. Many visitors would have been astonished at the total absence of goods on display. But when someone came here, the owner himself carefully selected the things the customer needed from the storeroom at the back of the shop.

  “Who’s that the Darkness has dragged in now?” exclaimed a low, none-too-polite voice, sounding like a bumblebee buzzing over a field of clover. “We’re closing, clear out!”

  A short, stocky figure emerged from the dark inner room. If I stood beside him, the top of the shopkeeper’s head would barely have reached up to my chest.

  Like all dwarves, he had a massive forehead, small, deep-set black eyes, and a heavy, protruding lower jaw. A powerful, barrel-shaped torso. Strong, muscular arms. And an obnoxious personality.

  For some reason, many ignorant philistines from the deep provinces always get dwarves and gnomes confused. In fact, dwarves are fundamentally different from their relatives the gnomes. Gnomes are smaller and look less robust, and they also do something that no dwarf would ever do even under pain of death—they wear beards.

  “Good evening, Master Honchel,” I said.

  “Ah-ah-ah,” the dwarf drawled, wiping his huge hands on his leather apron. “Master Harold. Good evening to you. And I was just about to fling you out of the shop. Haven’t seen you in a long time. How’s your eyesight?”

  “No complaints.” Honchel was referring to my night vision, which I had improved with the help of an elixir bought in his shop six months earlier.

  “And what brings you to me, especially at closing time?”

  “Purchases.”

  “Large ones?” The dwarf screwed up his eyes cunningly, already figuring out how much money he could squeeze out of me.

  “That depends how things go: what the goods are like.”

  “Come now, Master Harold, have you ever had reason to be dissatisfied with the range of goods in my shop?”

  “Not so far, but you must admit, dear Master Honchel, that there’s always a first time for everything.”

  “Not in my shop!” The dwarf laughed and led me into the back room. “I get my goods from the very finest magicians in the Order. And there are numerous items that I get from distant lands.”

  What’s true is true. Master Honchel was one of the few dwarves who had stayed in Valiostr and not gone back to his mountains after the king concluded a treaty with the gnomes for the purchases of cannon. I don’t know how long it will take before the dwarves overcome their resentment and return to Valiostr, together with all their goods, but in the meantime the ones like Master Honchel will certainly be able to make their fortunes three or four times over.

  “What are you interested in, Master Harold? Something standard or something special?”

  “Both,” I said, stopping behind the dwarf at a large table piled high with crates, large boxes, small boxes, chests, and caskets.

  We sat down at the table and, as always, the bargaining began, which I can’t stand. Because bargaining with a dwarf is harder than killing a h’san’kor, for instance.

  “Be more specific, it’s getting late,” Honchel said with a frown, pretending to be terribly busy.

  Like hell he was; you couldn’t have lured him away from me now with all the treasure of the dragons.

  “Twenty-five crossbow bolts with spirits of fire, the same number with spirits of ice, a hundred standard, armor-piercing. Part of the order to be delivered. I can’t take everything away with me.”

  “Oho,” said the dwarf, whistling and opening his eyes wide. “Are you going to drive the gnomes out of the Steel Mines?”

  I didn’t answer, and no answer was required in any case. Honchel knew who I was, what trade I was in, and what kind of goods I required for my work.

  “Good. Anything else?” the dwarf added with a nod.

  “Lights, one bundle. Forty crackers. Traveling companion string, about ten yards.”

  “What kind?”

  “Cobweb.”

  “Elfin? Where would I get that from?” the dwarf asked in mock surprise. “How can you ever get anything out of that fang-mouthed crowd?”

  “Come now, Master Honchel, you’re no simple shopkeeper; if you poke about in your boxes and chests, you might just find some.”

  “I will,” Honchel agreed, realizing that this time I had no intention of bargaining. Or almost none. “Is that all?”

  “Can
you suggest anything else?” I said, answering his question with a question.

  The dwarf thought for a moment with his chin propped on his huge fist, then laughed. “I do have a little something here for connoisseurs like yourself, Master Harold.”

  He disappeared under the table, rattled the lock of a trunk hidden away down there, and grunted as he clambered back out holding a crossbow in his hands. I couldn’t help myself, I gave a sigh of sheer delight, immediately raising the price by at least ten gold pieces.

  The crossbow had a rather unusual design—it was double. The first bolt was installed in a lower breech and the second bolt in an upper one. The bowstrings on both mechanisms were tensioned by using a short lever. A smooth, polished handle, twin triggers. The weapon was elegant, black in color and a lot smaller than mine. A dream.

  “Would you mind, Master Honchel?”

  The dwarf smiled and handed me the wonderful thing and two bolts. The little object was incredibly light. I set a bolt in its special slot, then a second one, and pulled on the lever. It was incredibly easy to move. One click, and the heavy bolts were locked in their breeches. Those clever dwarves had come up with a way to make tightening the bowstring simpler.

  I looked round for a target, spotted an old helmet covered in dust on a cupboard in a distant corner, glanced at Honchel to ask permission, aimed, and pressed the trigger.

  Click! The first bolt struck the helmet, pierced the steel, and stuck in the visor.

  Click! And the second bolt was right beside the first one.

  The miniature weapon was very easy to use. I fell in love with the baby at first glance.

  “Just look at that workmanship, that steel! No one will be able to make anything like it. I made it myself, with these very hands.” As if in confirmation of his words, the dwarf thrust his massive paws under my nose. “And it’s my own design.”

  He could have rattled on like that for hours, even if it wasn’t a crossbow, but just a dead rat’s skin. The most important thing for Honchel was always to sell his goods for as high a price as possible.

  “How much?” I asked.

  “Three hundred gold pieces.”

  “How much?” A dozen knights could easily have been kitted out for that sum.

  “Three hundred, it’s a fair price. I’m not going to haggle, either take it or I’ll find another buyer.”

  “Ah, but will you, my dear Honchel? For a price like that? It’s simpler to hire a squad of bowmen. For a hundred and fifty gold pieces.”

  The dwarf shook his head and bit his lip. Then he scratched the-back of his head.

  “You don’t need bowmen. But since you’re a regular, well-respected client—two hundred and fifty.”

  “Two hundred. And don’t forget that I’m taking your other goods, too.”

  “Two hundred and five,” the dwarf responded, clenching and unclenching his immense fists.

  “The Darkness take you, honorable sir, I’ll have it!” There was no point in haggling any more with the tight-fisted shopkeeper.

  “Shall we add up the bill?” The dwarf laughed as he took a massive abacus out from behind his back. “Or does the master require something else?”

  “How about spells? What I usually take.”

  “Glass vials? Wouldn’t you like some rune magic? I’ve just got in some very interesting scrolls from Isilia.”

  “No, no rune magic.” After the disastrous scroll that had landed me with Vukhdjaaz, I’d never trust that kind of sorcery again till the end of time.

  The dwarf raised his eyebrows. “Then what kind of spells?”

  “Well, what kind do you have, Master Honchel?”

  “That depends on the kind of glass you want the vials to be made out of.”

  “Magic glass.”

  The magic glass for spell vials was made by magicians, and it didn’t break unless its owner wanted it to. That is, I could jump up and down in iron boots on the little bottles of magic, and the glass would stand it until I wanted it to break and the spell to work.

  Magic glass is an excellent way of protecting yourself against having a vial with a magical potion break unexpectedly. That’s why the price for spells in vials of magic glass is much higher than for ordinary vials.

  “Let’s see what we’ve got here,” Honchel muttered, setting a pair of spectacles with rock-crystal lenses on his red nose. “Oh, and by the way, pardon my morbid curiosity, but how are you intending to pay?”

  “In cash,” I hissed through my teeth, and set a heavy bag on the table. “There’s a hundred here.”

  The dwarf didn’t even look at the money, and that, it must be said, is a genuinely rare event.

  “Master Harold, I’ve known you for a long time, you’re a good client, I won’t deny it, but I won’t release goods on credit even to you. And the list of things you’ve ordered already comes to four hundred. Admit it, you don’t have the money, do you?”

  “You’re right.”

  I wasn’t about to argue with a dwarf. Only gnomes and dragons are capable of that.

  “You’ll be paid, Master Honchel.”

  “Permit me to inquire exactly who will pay me, Master Harold, if you fail to return from your dangerous trip?”

  “He’ll pay,” I said, casually holding out the royal ring.

  Honchel carefully took it with the fingers of his left hand, held it up to his eye, and examined it carefully.

  “You’ll simply go to the palace and say you’ve come from me. And you can give the ring back at the same time.”

  “Hmm. Hmm. Very well. I’ll give credit for the first time ever.” The dwarf carefully put the ring away in the inside pocket of his waistcoat. “So where were we, my dear fellow? Ah, yes! Spells. Let’s see what the poor shopkeeper has to offer the master.”

  9

  STARK’S STABLES

  Curses! Over the last two months I’d got used to the silent, empty streets. But this night was special. In a couple of minutes it would strike midnight, and there were still a few rambunctious individuals wandering round the city, bawling out songs at the top of their raucous voices and reeking of cheap wine that you could smell from a league away.

  The festivities in honor of the expulsion of the beasts of Darkness from Avendoom were continuing.

  Fortunately, there were no revelers close to Stark’s old stables in the Port City. Not even drunks befuddled by the vapors of wine were drawn to that dark little street, where the poorest and shabbiest houses in the whole city stood.

  I stood there in the dark, in front of the long-abandoned stables. The walls were skewed and twisted with age, and from the outside it looked as if the old building could collapse at any moment, crushing anyone unfortunate enough to be nearby.

  This was a place of desolation and silence. In this place people tried to avoid being seen by creatures who would slit your throat for a few coppers or just for the sheer fun of it. Nobody had called them people for a long time, and they were far more dangerous than a pack of hungry gkhols.

  I glanced straight ahead, to the point where the wall stood, a few dozen yards from the old poplar trees. A patch of blinding white in the nocturnal gloom. To look at, there seemed absolutely nothing magical about it. Walls like that surrounded houses in every district of the city. Only this one was covered with semi illiterate obscenities and indecent graffiti clumsily scratched into its surface. Obviously attempts by the inhabitants of Stark’s Stables to express their understanding of literature and art. But to be quite honest, they hadn’t been very successful.

  The height of the obstacle that I had to overcome was two and a half yards. Not really so very high, if you thought about it. It was not at all difficult to climb over. However, there didn’t seem to be anybody around who wanted to take a stroll on the other side. I glanced again at the defenses erected by the Order to divide the living and the dead districts of Avendoom. The wall had turned yellow now—a dense wisp of mist had enveloped its white body in a sticky shroud.

  The
mist seemed to be alive, spectral, mysterious. It glittered in the light of the moon. First at one point, then another, it put out cautious feelers that trembled in the breeze. They gently probed at the air between the mist and the wall, trying to find a crack and overcome this low, but impassable barrier. Glittering and writhing, one of the yellow feelers almost reached right over the obstacle, but the moment it touched the white surface, a tiny spark sprang up between them. The feeler jerked back in fright and pulled away, writhing like a wounded worm.

  The magic of the wall had proved itself strong. It hadn’t let the mist through, even though it was constantly trying to find a way into the only part of the city that it hadn’t conquered yet.

  Apart from that solitary string of clouds on the left side, the sky was clear and the different-colored glass beads of the stars glittered and sparkled, set inconceivably high in the dome of the night. The Northern Crown lay across half of the sky like a bright diamond pendant. The Stone—the brightest star in our part of the world—pointed to the north, where the Nameless One was preparing for war in the Desolate Lands.

  People who had been there said that up beyond the Lonely Giant it was impossible to look at the Northern Crown—the stars became so bright and large. Not at all like the stars here in the city, although even here the size of the Stone was astounding and its bright blue radiance was truly beautiful.

  It was a warm night, you could almost call it hot, but I was trembling slightly and my teeth were beating out a quiet tattoo. I wasn’t shivering from cold, but from nervous tension. That happens to me before an important and dangerous job. It’s nothing to worry about; as soon as the moment comes to get down to work, the trembling disappears, scattered like fine dust, and its place is taken by intense concentration and precise caution—my much-praised professional qualities.

  Hiding there in the darkness, I waited impatiently for midnight to come. According to the rumors, the period between midnight and one in the morning was the safest. So I had decided to set out on my adventure at the most favorable time, especially since I only had a few minutes to wait.