Shadow Prowler

by Alexey Pehov

  “Quite right,” the first priest responded. “The gods get tired of our stupid requests and prayers.”

  “Well, be seeing you.” I waved to the old-timers and went on my way.

  “Are you a worshiper of Sagot, too?” the first old man called to me.

  “Yes,” I shouted without looking back, but then I suddenly froze and swung round sharply to face him. “What do you mean by ‘too’?”

  “Why, some lads came in no more than five minutes ago. They asked where they could find the refuge of the Protector of the Hands, the priest For. Are you with them, too?”

  I didn’t answer. Instead I set off at full tilt for the sanctuary. I don’t like it when people come looking for my old teacher in the middle of the night.

  All the grounds of the cathedral were brightly illuminated with oil lamps. The warm July night was quiet and serene. There was only a solitary cricket chirping merrily under a bush, playing his little concert for all those who refused to sleep. Even as I ran, I knew that I could be too late. Whoever it was that had been looking for For, they had already done what they wanted to do. But I was propelled by the insane hope that everything might turn out all right, even though I realized that was simply impossible.

  The statue of the knight locked in eternal combat with the ogre flashed by like a ghost; the statues of the gods flitted past in a blur of faces and figures. The path curved to the left, but I ran straight on across a flowerbed, crushing the sleepy, pale blue flowers with the mournfully drooping petals.

  Forward, forward!

  The gloom of the archway sucked me in and instantly spat me out at the other end. I went flying into the dwelling of Sagot, on the way snatching the crossbow out from behind my back. The accursed sweat was flooding into my eyes so that I couldn’t see properly or—even worse—aim properly. The door into For’s chambers . . .

  I was too late. The door wasn’t there anymore. It had been chopped into several pieces and was no more than a heap of rough boards lying on the floor. I burst straight into the room—a stupid thing to do, I won’t argue, but just at that moment I wasn’t in any state to think straight.

  I was greeted with weapons. About a dozen naked swords and a couple of lances very nearly made holes in Harold from every direction. The only thing that saved me was the sudden way I came to a halt. And, of course, that thunderous howl from For:

  “Nobody move! He’s one of ours!”

  Everybody there froze on the spot, and only then was I able to see that the men threatening me were the good priests of Sagot. Their expressions were determined and not exactly friendly, but I had to assume they had serious reasons for that in the form of the five dead bodies lying on the floor. The dead men’s clothes were anything but priestlike. Only those who considered themselves members of the Guild of Assassins dressed like that.

  “For, are you all right?” I asked, trying to make out my teacher behind the wall of priests.

  “What could possibly happen to me?” my teacher boomed, pushing his way through his volunteer bodyguards.

  And indeed, if you discounted the bruise on his face, very much like the one on my own, only brighter and fresher, and his torn priestly robe (the ceremonial one, I think), For was certainly alive and perfectly well.

  “Brother Oligo, remove these . . .”

  “Of course, Master For,” a bearded priest said with a nod. “There are still plenty of places left under the apple trees . . .”

  It was interesting to wonder just how many dead men who had threatened the health of the glorious brothers were buried in that garden under the old apple trees. Quite a lot, I imagined.

  “I suppose you won’t be informing the guards?” I asked, just to be on the safe side.

  One of the brothers, who was wiping the blood off the floor, gave a loud guffaw, a simple sound that perfectly expressed his attitude to that error of the gods that bore the title of the municipal guard.

  “I need to have a talk with you,” said For. He seemed a bit depressed.

  “What happened here?”

  “Nothing too serious. I come back here from the Chapel of the Hands, ready to eat a hearty supper and at the same time ask you about what’s going on in this vain world of ours, and suddenly . . . Well, I see that the door into my chambers has been chopped into pieces in a most brazen fashion and the dead men you’ve already seen are walking around in my rooms. I might have forgiven the poor sinners for just walking around! But they were also rummaging through the drawers of my desk and sticking their noses where they had no right to look. Well, I got really angry . . . and then these lads took out their weapons and tried to finish me off for good measure. Fortunately, I’d brought this thing back with me from the chapel and I was able to hold them off until my colleagues arrived.”

  For nodded casually in the direction of a heavy ceremonial mace lying on the table. Oho! From the look of it, someone’s head must have taken a real battering.

  Meanwhile the priest had finally finished cleaning up. He grabbed his bucket in one hand, his rag in the other, and left For and me on our own. The servants of Sagot are not like other priests. These lads in gray cassocks can do more than just pray to the gods, they can wash the floor, mend a hole in the roof, or fight off professional killers.

  “Sagot!” For exclaimed, raising his hands toward the ceiling. “They can only put in a new door in the morning, meanwhile we’ll have to pass the time without it. Has he gone?”

  “Uh-huh.” I glanced out of the room and then sank down onto a chair with a weary sigh. That day, like every other day that week, had been a hard one, and very eventful. “So what did you want to say to me?”

  “Harold, kid,” For began, “the papers have disappeared . . .”

  “Which papers?” I asked, not realizing what he was talking about.

  “Those papers,” said For. “When I got here, one of those men was rummaging in the safe, but they weren’t there anymore.”

  “Don’t worry, I took the papers,” I said to reassure my teacher, and slapped the bag with the valuables from the old Tower of the Order inside it. “Yesterday evening, while I was waiting for you.”

  “Thanks be to Sagot.” For sighed in genuine relief, and then he peered at me and asked: “How did you manage to open the safe?”

  “Very easily, but apparently not as easily as your uninvited guests. I think they found it and opened it far more quickly, only they didn’t find what they were looking for.”

  For shook his head.

  “And since when have members of the Guild of Murderers gone in for theft? And where did they get the courage to attack priests in the sanctuary of their god?”

  “For, I’m not sure that these men were from the guild. The murderers don’t usually work like that. And you’ve always been on good terms with the guild; Urgez wouldn’t be likely to send his lads here. No, this is someone else.”

  “The Master again?” For quipped acidly, taking out a bottle of wine. We both definitely needed a drink.

  “Anything’s possible.”

  “How did it all go?”

  “You mean my little problem with the Horse?”

  “Well, yes,” said For, taking a swig of wine from a beer glass.

  All his wineglasses had been broken in the battle with the unknown killers, and he was obliged to pour the beverage of the gods into vessels not intended for that purpose.

  I told him.

  “Hm, you managed to break Borg’s link by the most elementary method of setting all the sides against each other. Clever, but not new by any means. Well, that’s just an old man’s grousing. Pay no attention, kid. The only thing that really bothers me is that Markun and his gang and that Paleface of yours . . . what’s his name?”

  “Rolio.”

  “Rolio, Rolio . . . ,” For repeated, as if he were savoring the taste of the word. “I’ve never heard the name before. He’s definitely not from Avendoom. Now what was I saying. Aha! Yes, they also serve this Master. Whichever way you turn,
everybody’s his servant.”

  “Well, Markun won’t be serving anybody anymore,” I laughed.

  I didn’t feel at all sorry for the fat thief who had been killed by Vukhdjaaz.

  “No, Markun won’t. And I hope that now his place in the guild will be taken by someone more worthy and it will become what it used to be in the days of my youth. But this Rolio’s never going to let you be. Markun is dead, but he wasn’t the one who gave the murderer his Commission, it was some influential servant of the Master, and that means you’d better watch out for your head.”

  “I will,” I agreed. “But anyway, I came to say good-bye. I have to go to see the king, and then set out.”

  “Only don’t go at this time in the morning! Everyone at court is asleep, and there’s certainly no one expecting you there. Better take a rest, Harold, you look to me as if you’ve been used as a plow horse for every field in Siala.”

  It was hard to disagree with that. I felt more than ready to get my head down for as long as possible. A hundred years or so would probably do, and while I was asleep this spot of bother with the Nameless One would sort itself out naturally. . . .

  But of course, next morning nothing had changed for the better. The Nameless One was still up there beyond the Needles of Ice, nursing his grudge against Valiostr, and I had to travel more than a hundred leagues to collect that magical penny whistle.

  For and I parted with few words.

  “Take care of yourself, kid.” That was all that he said before I gathered up my things and left his hospitable dwelling, hoping I’d be able to come back to see the old priest after my visit to Hrad Spein.

  I walked to the palace without any adventures. There had been a light shower of rain in Avendoom while I was sleeping, and the air still had an elusive scent of coolness that was threatening to disperse in the hot rays of the sun. The rain had fallen and disappeared without trace. The sky was a clear azure blue that could compete with the eyes of a goblin, and there was not a single cloud in sight. It was just past midday, and the sun was really scorching. There was a wind, too, but it was so hot that it brought no relief. Something very strange was going on with the weather that year.

  In the Inner City the rich men were carrying on with their calm, unhurried lives, ignoring the heat and kther minor difficulties of life. The houses here were white and packed with the best life had to offer. But the first thing thaT strikes you when you walk into the Inner City is how clean everything is. Not a single speck of the dust and dirt that you getso used to in the Port City.

  And the people here are respectable, too. TheSe lads don’t steal purses. The gents in the Inner City handle such huge sums of money and steal on such a grand scale thap I could never earn that much in ten lifetimes of nonstop thievHng.

  I was Rtopped once by the Inner City Guard. My appearance was none toorespectable, on account of my clothes. But it was okay. They juRt asked where I was going, and when they got the answer, they l@ft me alone. It turned out they had already been warned about mX visit.

  Th@ huge bulk of the royal palace, surrounded by walls that were aJything but decorative, occupied a substantial part of the InnerCity. A small fortress within the fortress city. Every new kingin the Stalkon dynasty regarded it as his duty to finish building something, build something new, or improve something. The result was that the palace had grown to an immense size, while remaining what it had always been since it was first founded—a fortress.

  First of all I planned to go in through the gates for servants and those delivering food to the royal kitchen, but then I thought: Why should I go in through the little back gate like some rustic peasant? The king has personally invited me to come and see him, I didn’t ask him to do it, so they can open the central gates for me.

  I crossed the Parade Square at an angle, walking confidently straight toward the gates. When the guards on duty spotted me, they livened up noticeably.

  “What can we do for you?” one of them inquired, clutching a spear with a long narrow tip.

  Ever since the Stalkon dynasty ascended the throne, the palace had been protected by the king’s personal guard, which was now commanded by the eternally gloomy Milord Rat. Only nobles could serve as guardsmen, and guarding the king was regarded as an exceptional honor, especially for youngest sons who could expect no pickings from their fathers’ estates, while here they could actually distinguish themselves and acquire estates of their own.

  These lads didn’t like to put on airs and graces. All those fancy ceremonial halberds or poleaxes carried by the guards of the emperors of the Two Empires were no use for the normal defense of a head of state in unforeseen circumstances. A spear—now that’s a weapon of war. Ever since the father of the present Stalkon was attacked by rebels from the western provinces, no one had tried to persuade the guards to change their weapons for anything else. It was the warriors’ spears that had saved the king and the kingdom.

  “I wish to see His Majesty,” I said.

  The young noblemen are well educated, of course, but everyone enjoys a joke at the expense of an idiot. The entire platoon of ten guards burst into delighted peals of laughter.

  “Would you like to go straight to him?” asked the guardsman who had begun the conversation. “To join him for a small glass of wine, no doubt?” he said, winking merrily at his comrades. “Well, well! We’re very pleased to have a jester from the Market Square come visiting!”

  “And how shall we introduce you, milord?” another guard asked with a bow that was elegant, despite being humorous. “You’re probably a marquis, like me? Or a duke? Your business with the king must be very urgent, I’m sure!”

  The guardsmen started laughing again.

  “You’re a jolly lad. But now be on your way. The king’s not seeing just anyone today, as usual.”

  “Wonderful!” I said with an indifferent shrug. Just let Artsivus say that I hadn’t even tried. “Good-bye, milords.”

  But before I could leave, a soldier with the badges of a lieutenant of the guard appeared out of nowhere and demanded that I name myself.

  “Harold,” I replied.

  The guards’ faces immediately dropped and the marquis even spat on the ground at his feet.

  “So what was that comedy all about?” he asked me. “Why couldn’t you have said straightaway?”

  “Follow me, I’ll show you through,” the lieutenant told me. “And next time, gentlemen, I’ll have your hides if you disobey an order from milord Alistan.”

  The young noble lords had enough wits to keep quiet and not argue with the lieutenant. But their mood had definitely been spoiled. Too bad.

  The road led from the gates directly toward a huge gray building with tall arched windows. There were plenty of people on the grounds, both servants and those who lived here thanks to Stalkon’s gracious generosity. I took a sly look around, just in case I should ever happen to come back here on my own account.

  However, we didn’t go into the building. The lieutenant turned aside and led me along a path paved with yellow sandstone.

  “So tell me, Harold, what is this business you have with milord Markauz, if he’s dashing off somewhere and dumping all the guards on me?” the lieutenant suddenly asked.

  “I don’t know, milord.” I wasn’t going to give away state secrets to the very first person I met.

  I thought I heard the lieutenant sigh.

  “He’s going away at a bad time. A very bad time. The guards and the king need him here.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “This is your spot. Sit somewhere and wait. Someone will come for you.”

  The lieutenant walked away, with the silver buttons on his blue and gray uniform glittering in the sun.

  I looked around.

  A small garden with a round open space at the center, spread with sand. It was probably used for something like a fencing ground. Or whatever it is they call that place where guardsmen are trained to wave their shafts of metal about. I could see through to th
e palace; it was almost directly behind it, in fact. I adjusted my bag on my shoulder and started waiting, carefully observing the people around me.

  Oh yes, I was not the only one there. There were ten quite serious-looking lads hanging about nearby. I remembered their faces, because I’d seen them that night when I visited the duke’s house. They were the soldiers who had escorted Miralissa through the dark city.

  Wild Hearts.

  I drew a few mildly curious glances from them. But that was all. What in the name of a h’san’kor did they care about some stranger who had turned up out of the blue? Especially since all the Wild Hearts had urgent business to attend to. Some were playing dice, one was sleeping in the shade of the little fountain, some were checking their weapons, and one had decided to practice with his swords. And so Harold was ignored in a quite shameless manner.

  In one corner of the garden there were four gnomes puffing and panting beside a bed of red roses. These short lads with narrow shoulders, so unlike their massive, smooth-faced cousins the dwarves, were circling round a massive cannon. They seemed to be trying to load it, but they couldn’t manage it somehow, and they were arguing irritably and waving their fists at each others’ red faces. This wasn’t really helping matters along, and the furious swearing only fueled the fire of argument.

  The gnomes ran out of breath and started seeking a compromise. They tipped some powder into the cannon from a small, bright-red barrel. The ball was lying nearby, on the sand. One of the little folk, probably the youngest, to judge by his beard, tried to light his pipe, but received a smart cuff round the back of the head from one of his partners and put it back in his pocket with an offended sniff.

  And I should think so, too! All we needed right now was to be blasted up into the air because of some bearded idiot’s carelessness.

  I heard light, stealthy footsteps behind my back and said with a smile: “How’s life, Kli-Kli?”

  “Ooh!” the goblin said in a disappointed voice. “How did you guess that it was me?”