"Ah," said the beast, after considering the word "wondering" for a long moment. That was fair enough; it never does any harm to increase your vocabulary. "Some mortal read a spell that ended the freedom of demons in this anthill of men. I'm going to catch him and suck the marrow out of his bones. You haven't seen anyone round here, have you?"
I shook my head desperately. I thought I knew which particular mortal we were talking about here.
"And who released Vukhdjaaz from the Darkness?" I asked, desperately seeking a way out of this unpleasant situation.
"The Master." Another jolt.
"The Nameless One?"
The demon only snorted and seared me once again with that hungry glance. This creature had a really great talent for making me feel nervous. Just what was it he saw in me?
"Vukhdjaaz is hungry."
"Yes?" I squealed, setting my finger on the trigger of the crossbow.
Of course, shooting at a demon with an ordinary crossbow bolt is like pricking an ogre with a pin. It only annoys them even more. But what else could I do?
"Yes. And Vukhdjaaz needs help, too."
"Perhaps Harold can help you?"
"He can." Vukhdjaaz inhaled my odor and a sticky thread of saliva dripped out of the corner of his mouth.
"No, with your business!" I wailed despairingly.
"Ah?" The demon seemed a little upset, but he moved his toothy face away from me. "Vukhdjaaz wants to stay in this world. The food is not so good in the Darkness. Harold will help Vukhdjaaz."
"Of course, what do I have to do?"
"Soon I'll be drawn into the Darkness. No matter how well I hide."
The sooner the better, I thought, putting on the polite expression of an attentive listener.
"But if I can find something first, I'll stay here for a long time. I can sense the thing. It's here in the city. Vukhdjaaz is clever," the demon reminded me yet again.
"What is this thing?"
"A horse."
Well, naturally. There's more meat on a horse than on a man. And this demon's so big. And so hungry.
"All right." It wasn't really a very tricky job. "Tomorrow I'll get you a horse. Which breed do you prefer?"
"You're stupid," the demon hissed, prodding me with a clawed finger. The prod sent me staggering back several steps. "Not a live horse, the the Horse." Horse."
"Aaah. That That horse, why didn't you explain straightaway?" I decided that stupidity was the quickest way into Vukhdjaaz's stomach, and it was much safer to be clever, even if I didn't understand a thing. horse, why didn't you explain straightaway?" I decided that stupidity was the quickest way into Vukhdjaaz's stomach, and it was much safer to be clever, even if I didn't understand a thing.
"I give you four days. Vukhdjaaz is clever. Get me the Horse." The demon looked at me, waiting for an answer.
"Of course, of course. I'll do everything." I still hadn't understood the point of the conversation, but I was really keen to get rid of this creature that found it so easy to appear out of walls and hide inside them.
"I'll be watching." The demon impaled me with its scarlet eyes. "Do as I order, or I'll suck the marrow out of your bones. Vukhdjaaz is clever. You can't trick him."
The demon took a step toward the gray wall and dissolved into it. I stood there for a while, trying to calm the rapid pounding of my heart, which was about to tear itself out of my chest.
What do I make of all this? First a group of crazed Doralissians pursues me, demanding that I give back their horse, then I chant a spell that has been lying in the depository at the library for Sagot only knows how many centuries, and do what the entire Order was unable to do: I drive all the demons back into the Darkness. Or almost all. Then a ravenously hungry demon, the most stupid in the entire world, picks me up like a little kitten and also demands a horse. I wonder if Vukhdjaaz and the Doralissians are looking for different horses or the same one? Maybe I should introduce them to each other, and they can make their own deal about horses? Maybe horse-breeding was coming into fashion in a big way?
I walked home-and got my cloak-without making any attempt to hide, in the complete certainty that not a single creature of the night could get me, apart from the extremely clever Vukhdjaaz. I didn't bother to change my lair, just set all my troubles aside until the morning, dropped onto the bed, and instantly fell asleep.
There were exactly six days left until the expedition to Hrad Spein.
6
DAYTIME SURPRISES
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The unceremonious hammering on the door made me leap up off the old cracked wooden bedstead and start fumbling around for my weapon. "Harold? Are you there? Open up! In the name of the Order!" a loud, deep voice shouted.
What could the Order want with me at this early hour? I glanced out through the dirty windowpane. The sun was already quite high.
"Harold! Open the door, or I'll break it in!"
Okay, try. Although, if he really is a magician of the Order, he won't need to try very hard. He'll only need to spit and half the house will be reduced to splinters. I began thinking seriously about taking a stroll through the window.
"Harold, His Magicness Artsivus requests you to come. Urgently!"
Artsivus? Why didn't he say straightaway that he was from Artsivus, instead of threatening to shatter the door?
"Just a moment. Wait," I shouted, feeling at my cloak. It was a little dirty and there were hoofprints on it, but it was perfectly wearable.
I opened the lock, drew the bolt, and took a step back. But I didn't put the crossbow away-after all, anyone could be hiding behind the name of an archmagician of the Order.
"Come in."
The door opened and there in front of me was a harmless-looking young man in a blue robe that dangled like a sack from his narrow shoulders. I would never have thought this young lad could hammer on the door so hard.
"Are you Harold? On the-" My visitor spotted the crossbow trained on him, turned gray in the face, and stopped talking.
I put the weapon away behind my back-there's no point in frightening children.
"Yes, I'm Harold."
"Master Harold. His Magicship, the head of the Order, Master Artsivus, asks you to come to him without delay."
"I see. What's happened?"
"I don't know."
"All right. Wait."
Without hurrying, I took the bag containing the magic ingredients and the gold I had received from the king out of its secret hiding place. I'm not usually so stupid as to keep my money all in one heap, especially at home. It's simpler to pass it on to a few reliable people and make the gold work for you. In a gnome bank, for instance. The money's always reliably protected by traps, locks, magic, and furious mattockmen. But I was going to need the king's gold pieces today.
"Where's the carriage?"
"Eeeh ... ," said the apprentice, embarrassed. "I'm on foot."
"Magnificent! Then tell me, apprentice, how come you're still alive after walking all the way through the Port City to reach me? Round here they leave nave children like you floating under the pier. Or maybe you weren't lying when you said you would break in the door, and you know how to shoot fireballs?"
The lad became even more embarrassed, and blushed.
"Well," he mumbled, "just a little."
"Okay, lead on," I sighed.
Why on earth Artsivus would take on such an awkward child as an apprentice was beyond me.
Noon. The central street of the Port City was packed solid with people. There was everybody here-from idly wandering revelers to traders in all sorts of everything.
I spotted an elderly pickpocket with two of his apprentices training under his supervision right there in the crowd. They were cutting the strings of the idle onlookers' purses. One apprentice evidently felt my gaze on him, and gave me a tense look, but then, realizing that I was on no closer terms with the law than himself, he winked gaily. I winked back.
In wonderful times of long ago I also began my career with the pockets of the idle public on the Market Square. Many years have passed since then. Nowadays no one remembers Harold the Flea, a skinny, eternally hungry young lad roaming round the squares and streets of the city in search of nourishment and a place to spend the night in a dirty alley or a barracks. Those times came to an end, Harold the Flea disappeared, and Shadow Harold appeared in Avendoom.
"Oi!" my guide shouted when someone in the crowd stepped on his foot.
"Wake up," I whispered in his ear. "We have to get out of this crush. Keep left, along the wall."
The torrent of people was thinner here, and we could stop jostling with our elbows.
The crowd of humans and nonhumans was seething with gossip. Groups of gossipmongers sprang up spontaneously first in one spot, then another.
Rumors, rumors, rumors.
"Did you know the Nameless One is already on the march?"
"What's the king doing?"
"No, that's rubbish. There is no Nameless One!"
"Oh yes, there is! My granny told me about him, may she live in the light!"
"What's the king doing? He's gathering an army. Taxes will go shooting up again, and the poor people will suffer."
"Hey!" I called to Artsivus's apprentice.
"Yes?"
"We've got a long, long walk to the Tower of the Order. Wouldn't it be better to turn off onto the Street of the Bedbugs? There's no crush there."
"Mmmm ... ," the lad said hesitantly. "Milord Artsivus said you have no business in the Tower of the Order. He asked me to take you to one of the houses near here."
"All right then, let's go."
Does Artsivus think a thief will defile his holy magical sanctuary?
The number of people in the streets could be explained in the first instance by the incredibly fine weather for June. At this time of year in north Valiostr-which means in Avendoom, too-it was usually still cool, more reminiscent of early April somewhere on the southern boundaries of the kingdom. What else could you expect, with the Desolate Lands so close? But the situation right now was rather different. The sun was blazing away with all its strength. I was streaming with sweat. And I wasn't the only one. A citizen of the Border Kingdom walked past us with his apprentice. He was frying and smoking in his chain mail. The Borderland men never took their armor off, no matter where they were. It was a habit that came from living beside the Forests of Zagraba.
If this weather holds out until the end of August, then half the city will simply die of the heat. I've already heard people saying that it's a new trial visited on us by the Nameless One.
"Harold! Hey, Harold!"
I turned toward the shout. There, standing outside the Knife and Ax, waving desperately to me, was the owner of said establishment, a good fellow and my "dearest friend" Gozmo.
What does he want with me? I already have a Commission. And what a Commission! Suicidally profitable, you could say. But all the same I gave a sharp tug on the sleeve of Artsivus's apprentice and nodded for him to follow me. The lad opened his mouth to object that His Magicship was far more important than some innkeeper, but I turned my back on him and crossed to the other side of the street. The young magician had no choice but to follow me.
"What is it, Gozmo?" I asked none too amiably. "Why shout and let the whole city know that I'm Harold?
"Ah. Eer ..." The stoop-shouldered innkeeper gave my companion an inquiring look.
"Will you stand me a beer?" I asked, nodding significantly toward the door. "We can talk in there."
"Come on in."
The inn was empty, which was only to be expected. Customers would start to appear as evening came on, in the twilight. The empty tables and benches looked strange and lonely. The fire was out. There were stools heaped up on the tables closest to the doors, with their legs sadly up toward the ceiling. Beside them the singer of the establishment, now playing the role of cleaning lady, was scrubbing away diligently with a rag. One of the bouncers was helping her. Yes, Gozmo's staff were certainly masters of all trades.
"Come over to the bar, Harold, and your friend can take a seat at that table over there. What will you have to drink, young man?"
"Water." The magician's apprentice obviously felt awkward-his face was set in an expression of astonishment that he could possibly have entered such a dubious place of his own free will.
Gozmo pulled a sour face and looked at me. "Who's your new friend?"
I shrugged, and Gozmo took a glass of water over to the apprentice's table, then came and stood facing me, behind the bar, and poured a full mug of beer from a barrel hidden underneath it. He drank that beer himself and rarely shared it with anyone. I took a large gulp and gave Gozmo an appreciative nod. It was genuinely magnificent porter, just as I had expected. My old mate Gozmo didn't poison his own innards with the rubbish that he poured for most of his regulars without any pangs of conscience.
The former thief wasn't drinking right now, though. He was shifting nervously from one foot to the other and casting wary glances in my direction. Why would that be? But he didn't say anything, and I've never been unduly curious, so I simply sipped the beer, waiting for the innkeeper to explain why he had called me over.
"So, why did you call me, my old friend?" I asked impatiently. "That's a fine beer you've stood me, of course, but what's the reason for it?"