by Alexey Pehov
Pork imagined how a horde of unwashed little men with overgrown beards, hatchets gripped in their teeth, grunting, would scale the wicker fence and, looking around fearfully, dig up the turnips from the vegetable patch of that wicked old grandmother. And she would stand on the porch, shaking her walking stick and giving them the tongue-lashing of their lives, calling down curses on their ugly heads. And then she would throw her stick at them, the old viper. She threw it at Pork once, when he broke her fence. What a bump on the head that was. His father simply told him that it was time for him to wise up. But that didn’t happen. Just as before, everyone laughed at him, called him a half-wit, and didn’t let him play with them. Well, what of it—he didn’t really want to, truthfully.
One of the riders noticed the cowherd and said something to his companions. They left the road and made their way toward him over the field.
At first Pork was terrified. He wanted to take to his heels, but running away—that meant leaving the cows unattended. And of course, they’d scatter. He’d have to search for them again. And Choir would wander into the ravine again, and he’d get stuck there unable to get her out. He’d catch hell from his father. There was nothing for it; he’d get either the nettles or the whip. He wouldn’t be able to sit on his fanny for a week. So there was no sense in running. And anyway, it’s a long way to the forest. And those armed bulls were on horseback. They could catch him and give him a good drubbing. And besides, he still didn’t know why they were coming. But his father wouldn’t pat him on the head if he lost the cows. And so, making the choice between the clear threat and shadowy danger, Pork decided to stay put and see what would happen.
The riders came up to him, drawing in their reins.
“Are you from the village, friend?” asked the oldest of the four. Lean and tall with a pointed face and deep-set, clever eyes, the man regarded Pork without malice. Cordially and just a bit mockingly.
No one had ever called Pork “friend” before. The cowherd liked the way it sounded.
“Uh-huh.”
“You’re from Dog Green?”
“Yeah.”
“Is it far?”
“No. Not very, sir. It’s just beyond that hill. As soon as you get to the top, you’ll see it.”
“We’ve finally made it,” said another of the men, sighing with obvious relief. His face was pitted by smallpox. “It’s well hidden, eh, Whip?”
“Did you doubt the words of Mols, Bamut?” chuckled the one who had called Pork a friend.
A third rider, the youngest one, answered that question with a grunt. Pork disliked him right away. He was sullen and wicked. A man like that would have no problem boxing you on the ears. And then he’d laugh.
“Is there an inn in the village?”
“In the middle of nowhere? What kind of inn would they have not ten leagues from the mountains?” snapped the youth, who had blue eyes.
“We have an inn,” replied the cowherd, offended. “It’s right by the road after you go through the village. It’s quite large. With a red chimney. They have tasty meat pies. And shaf. My father gave me some to try once. But why have you come here? And are your swords real? Will you let me hold one? And your horses, they are Rudessian stock, right? Are they yours? They are like knights’ horses. I’ll soon be a knight, too. They’re fast, aren’t they? You aren’t knights, by any chance, are you?”
“Hold on, hold on!” laughed the lean rider cheerfully. “Not all at once. You’re in quite a hurry there, friend. Let’s start at the beginning, I beg you. Are those cows yours?”
“No. I look after them. Yeah.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
The cowherd pouted and looked at the man, offended.
He was mocking him. But he had called him his friend. He thought they were friends.
The man laughed once more. The other three riders remained silent and didn’t even smile. They seemed completely uninterested in the conversation.
“And how many households are there in the village?”
“A lot.” Pork showed all the fingers on his hands. “Six times as many.”
“And you’re literate. You can count,” the man said respectfully.
“No,” sniveled the half-wit. “My father showed me. I can’t count on my own.”
“Tell me, friend, do you have any new people in the village?”
“Are you talking about the Viceroy’s people?”
“Well, maybe. Tell me about them.”
“They came here at the beginning of spring. They were handsome. Important. And they had horses. Now we’re just waiting until the end of fall. There haven’t been any others. It’s just us. Only the loggers come.”
“The loggers?” asked the man with the pockmarked face.
“Yeah,” sad Pork, nodding hastily, pleased that he could carry on such an important conversation. “They chop down our trees and then float them down the river to Al’sgara. They say they make really great boats from our trees. Oh, yeah! The best of all boats. They float. Yes.”
“And what about these loggers?”
“I don’t really know, sir. They come here in the summer. They live in mud huts beyond Strawberry Stream. They’re mean. Once they beat me up and ruined my new shirt. Then I caught it again from my father, because of the shirt. Yeah. But they leave in the fall. They don’t want to stay here for the winter. They say that the roads get blocked with snow. You can’t get out until the end of spring.”
“I told you, it’s a swamp,” spat the young one.
“No. The mountains aren’t far from here. And they say that there are the Gates of Six Towers, though I’ve never seen them. And to get to the swamp, you have to go through the forest for several days. There’s a bog there, you know. You go there, you’ll fall right in.”
“It’s unlikely our friend would be found in the company of loggers,” said the short man who looked like a ferret and had kept silent so far.
“I’d have to agree with you. But tell me, friend, do you know everyone in the village?”
Pork screwed up his eyes in suspicion. These men were strange. They’d asked him about the mean loggers, and then again about the village. And about the Viceroy’s soldiers.
“Don’t be afraid.” The lean man tried to appease him with a smile. “We’re just looking for our friend. He’s about this old.” He pointed to the man afflicted with pox. “He has light hair, gray eyes; he rarely smiles and can shoot better than anyone from the saddle. Do you know such a man?”
“Gnut shoots better than anyone from the saddle, but he has black hair and one of his eyes isn’t even there at all.”
“He has a woman with him, too. She’s tall and beautiful. She has long blond hair and dark blue eyes. So, what do you think? Are there any people like that in your village?”
“There might be,” said the cowherd reluctantly. “I don’t really have the time to remember. I’ve got to herd the cows. Or Father will cuss me.”
“I hope this will jog your memory.” The rider threw Pork a coin.
Pork caught it and his jaw dropped. The silly bear had thrown him a whole sol! Now he could buy himself sweets and eat them where no one could see. Pork wouldn’t share them with anyone. That’d show them, calling him an idiot! The cowherd bit into the coin and, quickly, so they wouldn’t be able to take it away, hid it in his bag.
“You described them really well. That’s Pars and his wife, Ann. I recognized them right away.”
The men exchanged looks.
“Where can we find them?”
“Oh, that’s really easy. He lives just outside the village, not far from the blacksmith’s shop. You’ll see his house right away. It has little ponies with wings etched on the gates. They’re pretty. I want some. If you go through the whole village, you’ll see it.”
“Has he been living here for a long time?”
“I can’t remember.” The half-wit scrunched up his brow, strenuously trying to recall. “A long time.”
“Take it
easy, friend,” said the lean rider.
The strangers turned their horses. When they got to the road Pork’s shout carried to them.
“Hey, misters! It’s just that Pars can’t shoot from the saddle. He’s a carpenter!”
* * *
“Did you need to coddle him so, Whip?” petulantly asked the rider that Pork had dubbed young. “Why did you need to have that conversation with a half-wit? We could have asked anyone we met in the village.”
“It’s so kind of you to try to teach me. Anyone else we met wouldn’t be an idiot. You couldn’t have bribed them for a sol. You don’t know villagers. They won’t budge if they’ve decided they don’t like your face, and then there’s nothing you can do.”
“We could tickle them with our knives.”
“Well, then you would be the idiot, Shen,” sneered Whip. “Four against how many? This is not the outlying towns of Al’sgara with our timid peasants. The locals here wouldn’t jump at the sight of your blade and fawn over you. These places are savage. Every man can stand for himself. There’s enough axes and clubs around here that you won’t know what hit you. No little knife would save you.”
“Well, then we could just check every home ourselves. We’d find him somewhere.”
“Oh yes, very simple. Sixty households. How much time do you think we’d need to get that done?”
“An hour? Maybe two?”
“Exactly. And if we encounter some kind soul who runs off and warns him about our arrival? And he decides he has nothing to say to us? What then? Do you want to go to Mols and offer excuses?”
This last argument completely drained the young man of his desire to quarrel. He petulantly pursed his lips and fell silent.
In the meantime the riders had crested the hill and caught sight of Dog Green. The village was situated along both banks of a narrow river. The idiot had led them astray—there were far more than sixty houses. To the right of the road was a small graveyard, and just a bit farther on, a clear-cut area. On the farther shore there was a field, upon which encroached the gloomy wall of impenetrable forest. The village, lost on the edge of the province, had been carved out in a circle from the forests, low hills, and numerous ravines.
Whip’s team had taken a long time to get here from Al’sgara. These last few days they had been forced to sleep beneath the open sky. For leagues around there was not a single inn. They had completely left behind tolerable food, wine, and women. All they had for company were mosquitoes and gadflies. Thank Melot that they hadn’t encountered any forest spirits or goves (a species of lower demon) in the wilderness. They had kept to the road. True, even though no evil creatures had crawled out of the depths of the forest, wild animals had.
“Damn, but that blessed idiot didn’t say which shore we should search for our carpenter,” said Bamut, the one who was ravaged by smallpox.
“We’ll find him. The task’s almost done. We’ve reached the end.” Whip urged his horse forward.
His companions followed him without hesitation. They rode past the graveyard, which didn’t even have a fence around it. They passed by a well, where two peasant women were cursing at each other, arguing over who would draw water first. And then they were in the western part of the village.
They were being eyed warily. Rarely were outsiders seen here, especially ones on horseback. But no one questioned them.
The riders found the inn quickly. The building stood out from the rest. It was large with a red chimney and ornamental doors. The innkeeper, having caught sight of potential lodgers, practically choked on his shaf. His eyes went so wide that Whip began to fear that he had suffered a stroke.
Whip had no doubt there would be spare rooms.
“We rarely have visitors here,” hurriedly muttered the innkeeper as he pocketed the soren (a large gold coin) he’d received from the shortest of his guests. “Come in, please. Usually people just ride straight through to El’nichi Ford. We’re out of the way here. Do you wish to eat something? We can get everything ready quickly, in no time at all.”
“How do you even make a living? If you have so few guests, I mean?”
“There hasn’t been anyone since midspring. We only survive thanks to the loggers. They come to drink shaf and wine. But only in the evenings. Right now there’s no one here. There will be nothing to bother you. Come in, come in. Thank Melot, who sent you to my modest hearth!”
“Is there a blacksmith in your village? My horse has a limp,” said Whip casually.
“Of course. Old Morgen. Go down the road, good sir. Then take a right, ride through the square until you get to the edge of the village. Right by the woods. You can’t miss it.”
Shen and Bamut exchanged significant glances and once again climbed into their saddles. Whip and the short one, who answered to the name of Midge, followed their example.
“Prepare rooms and supper for us,” the eldest of the four said over his shoulder. “We’ll be back soon.”
The innkeeper hastened to assure the benevolent gentleman that everything would be done to the best of his ability, and then he ran off to execute the order. It didn’t even enter his head to wonder why all four were going to the blacksmith when only one of their horses was lame.
* * *
“According to the half-wit, he’s not far from the blacksmith.”
“If he wasn’t having us on,” remarked Shen.
Whip chuckled. The kid was hoping that the fool had led them astray. That would indeed be an excellent confirmation that his commander had made a mistake.
In his dreams.
Whip didn’t really understand why Mols had found it necessary to break up their tried and true threesome with a fourth. Shen was far too green to even be able to think. He acted first, and only afterward did he perceive the consequences. He was foolish. It wouldn’t be long before he died as a result.
“If he was having us on, I’ll go back and toss him in the river,” replied Whip, trying not to show his annoyance. “Everywhere you go, you’ll find an idiot who’s willing to sell out the people closest to him.”
They slowly rode along the street, attentively looking around. From under a fence a dirty, shaggy hound shot out with a high-pitched yipping. It didn’t dare run after the horses, but it hurled invective at the riders until they had disappeared from its sight.
“Looks like we found it.” Midge nodded toward the gates. “There are the ponies.”
In point of fact, thin-legged horses with swan’s wings were carved on the wooden doors. It was the house they were searching for. It was large, bright, and built out of pine logs.
“Well, you see there, Shen,” said Whip with a smile. “Seems you should trust people sometimes. Including idiots.”
The young man just twisted up his lips in response.
“Bamut, stay here. Keep an eye on the horses,” ordered the leader of the team.
“Damn, but what if he slips out through the back?”
“You have such a bad opinion of our friend.”
“Time changes people. Hey! Damn! Leave the crossbow!”
This last was directed at Shen, who was reaching for the weapon that was hanging off his saddle.
“Why should I?” he asked uncomprehendingly.
“Do as you’re told,” said Whip, in support of his comrade. “We came here to have a chat. Just a little chat. That thing could ruin everything.”
“You’re not afraid, are you, boys?”
“It’s none of your business what we’re afraid of and what we’re not.” Midge edged into the conversation. “It’s your job to keep your mouth shut.”
Shen had been getting on the shorter man’s nerves for a while now. It was highly probable that sooner or later they would have a serious dustup and after the fight one of them would never get up again. Whip would put his money on Midge. He was experienced, cruel, and cunning, and he knew his business well. Only Mols knew how many souls that diminutive assassin had sent to Melot’s bosom.
“Both of you shu
t up!” yelled Whip, seeing that the young man was not holding the crossbow as casually as before. “You can sort out this stupid quarrel when we get back to the city, if you still wish. But right now we have a common cause. There’s no time for getting into a knife fight. I’m telling you right now, if you grapple with each other, you’ll be booted out of the guild faster than Mols can think of your names. Do I make myself clear, you blockheads?”
“Yes,” said Midge, taking his hand from his knife. “I got carried away.”
“I understand,” agreed Shen easily, handing over the crossbow to Bamut.
“Then let’s do what we came here for. I’ll be the one to talk. No sudden moves. Shen, that means you.”
“Yeah, I get it! I get it. Why are you talking to me like I’m a child?”
“Because chopping cabbage with a sword is one thing, but talking shop with a gardener is something completely different.”
Having said this, Whip opened the gate and walked into the yard, immediately catching sight of the man he was looking for.
Naked to the waist, the man was chopping firewood. Shen had heard about him from his associates, but he turned out to be completely different than he’d imagined. He’d thought he would be sturdy and strong, with large pectorals and massive fists. The man who was known as Gray in Al’sgara did not correspond to the image created in Shen’s imagination at all. The man was not burly. And he didn’t seem to be a hulking giant capable of decapitating a five-year-old bull with one swipe. There was nothing threatening about him. He was lank and wiry. He didn’t have a single bit of excess fat, nor of bulging muscle, on him.
Shen had known people like this before. They didn’t use force so much as the energy stored in the bands of sinew in their arms. A tough fellow. And probably as durable as a hundred Blazogs (a race of swamp dwellers). The heavy axe was practically flying through the air.
