"Bring the Horse in three days, or I'll suck the marrow out of your bones!"
"But how will I find you?"
"Call me by name when you have the Horse, and I will appear."
Vukhdjaaz shot me another piercing glance and dissolved into the wall.
I leaned back against the rough surface of the stone, catching my breath. Oo-ooph! That sort of thing could give you a heart attack. I never expected the cursed monster to appear again so soon, and during the day, too. Something had to be done about Vukhdjaaz.
I already had a rough idea of where to start looking for the Horse. Whoever it was that set the Doralissians on me had it. No doubt about that. Now I needed to find these persons unknown and filch the Stone before nightfall the day after tomorrow, or I'd have my marrow sucked out. ...
I walked up a massive stairway with chipped and battered steps, and then along the corridor leading to the quarters of the priests of Sagot. Two priests standing beside a marble tub from which protruded a feeble scruffy bunch of leaves that was supposed to be a palm tree stopped discussing the affairs of the god of thieves and began staring at me. I nodded and formed my fingers into the sign of our guild. They relaxed, lowered their heads to greet me in reply, and went back to their philosophical dispute. I was no longer an outsider to them.
It's no secret that only former thieves and swindlers become priests of Sagot-this is a centuries-old tradition that no one has any intention of abandoning.
When the corridor came to an end, I walked up another stairway to the second floor, where the priests had their quarters. The door I was interested in was the second on the right. It was a rather ordinary-looking door, with its old, dark wooden surface scarred with the deep furrows left by the swords of unfriendly visitors.
But the former thieves were well able to stand up for themselves, and they always carried a knife concealed under their placid gray robes. And so, my friend had told me, those who had invaded the calm sanctuary of this shrine had been buried in the garden, and their swords hung in the prayer hall of the cathedral to discourage anyone else from entering this peaceful and godly place with naked weapons. Sagot might be the least of the gods, less menacing and mighty than his brothers and sisters, but he and his votaries would always defend themselves.
I knocked on the door. On entering without waiting to be invited, I found myself in a large, well-lit room-a hall, in fact. The walls were painted in cheerful colors, a contrast to the dreary, gray corridors that was a delight to the eye. I glanced round this rather wealthy interior, assessing the value of the contents (well, I can't help it, it's a habit). Expensive paintings by well-known masters of the past, illustrating scenes from divine mythology; a yellow Sultanate carpet on the floor; wonderful furniture; a miniature gold pedestal of Sagot. My friend certainly held a high position in the hierarchy of servants of the god of thieves.
"Harold! My boy!" A huge, fat man in the grayish-white cassock of a priest got up from the table and came toward me, throwing his arms wide. "What brings you here? It must be a hundred years since you last came to see this old man!"
"Hello, For. Glad to see you alive, well, and fat!" I laughed as I embraced the old priest.
"Can't be helped, it's the job," he laughed in reply.
"Hey! Hey! Hey! I saw that, you old rogue! Come on, give back my purse!" I exclaimed. "So you haven't lost your touch, you old thief?"
"How can we old men possibly compare with you youngsters?" For replied jokingly, and tossed me the purse he had just removed from my belt. "Come to the table, I was just about to dine."
"You're always dining, whatever time of day I arrive. Serving Sagot has made you three times the size you used to be."
"Sagot's will must be done," For said with a doleful shrug. "You sit here, I'll bring your favorite wine."
He laughed, winked at me, and went through into the next room, puffing and panting. I sat on a massive chair, solid and strong enough to support For, and put my cloak with the crossbow wrapped in it on the table.
Old For-"Sticky Hands For." One of the most famous master thieves of former times, who in years gone by had carried out such daring robberies on the most influential houses that his feats of thievery were still talked about in our professional guild to this very day.
For was the man who had first noticed that skinny, constantly hungry youth, Harold the Flea, taken him under his wing, and started to teach him the art of the Supreme Mastery instead of petty pickpocketing.
For ten years he struggled and strained with me, until finally Shadow Harold emerged, with a skill equal to his teacher's. But it was a long time now since For had retired and entered the service of Sagot.
The good priest, Brother For, "Protector of the Hands."
That title still set me laughing; I simply couldn't believe that the most successful and talented thief of all had actually retired. Of all the living creatures in this insane and dangerous world, the only one I trusted was my teacher and friend.
"Here I am." For's red face beamed a triumphant smile. He was holding a pair of dust-covered bottles in each hand.
"Amber Tears!" I exclaimed.
"Precisely! Old stock, the finest wine of the bright elves from beyond the Mountains of the Dwarves. You'd better appreciate it."
"I already am."
"I was scarcely hoping to see you for the next few years, kid. There are all sorts of rumors creeping round the city."
"Rumors!" I snorted. "What sort of rumors?"
"Well, they say you're at daggers drawn with Markun and sooner or later things will end badly. It's not yet clear exactly for which one of you, but bets are being placed."
"Oh, really?"
"Really."
"I hope you've put your money on the right side?" I chuckled.
"But of course! According to other gossips, Frago Lanten shut you away in the Gray Stones. And then some claimed the Doralissians were searching very hard for a certain Harold. So tell me, kid, are these mere rumors, or have you got yourself into some kind of fix?" For gave me a quizzical look as he gnawed on a pork rib.
"Not exactly rumors," I began cautiously. "The entire world seems to have gone crazy, For."
"May Sagot save your wayward soul," the priest sighed, and set the gnawed bone down to one side. "The world is poised on the brink of a great war, Harold, and you're still wasting time on your idiotic subterfuges. If everything I've heard is right, it's time for you to disappear. To somewhere in the Lowland. Although I don't think everything's calm there, either. The Nameless One is only the beginning, my old bones can feel it. He'll provide the initial impetus, be the fuse, as the gnomes say, that ignites the powder keg. Then it will choose for itself exactly how to blow up our fragile world. The orcs will get a taste of freedom. Miranueh will break out and run wild, Garrak will go for the twin Empires' jugular, then they'll go for each other, the dwarves will go for the gnomes, the gnomes for the dwarves. We'll be drowning in blood, mark my words."
"You think so?"
"Harold, my little one. You're an intelligent man. I knew what I was doing when I spent the best years of my life on you. The learning you received is easily a match for any nobleman's. How many of the books in my library have you read? All of them? But you still think like a five-year-old child. There'll be war, mark my words, there will. It's inevitable. Unless some little miracle happens."
"Sagot's will be done," I muttered gloomily, twirling the glass of wine in my hands.
"His will be done," For repeated mechanically, and took a huge bite out of a crusty bun. "So what was it that brought you to me?" he asked when he finished chewing.
"What, can't I even visit an old friend now?" I asked, genuinely offended, and knitted my brows in a frown.
"Not when it would be wiser to lie low. But then, you always were stubborn and took unnecessary risks," said the priest, gesturing forlornly. "So there's nothing you need from me, then?"
"Yes, there is," I sighed.
"Aha!" For declared triumphantly. "Quod erat demonstrandum! I haven't lost my grip on logic yet. So what do you want from a fat old man?" I haven't lost my grip on logic yet. So what do you want from a fat old man?"
"Refuge for a couple of nights until I set out on a Commission."
"We have some free cells. Perhaps you might even turn into a priest?" chuckled the former thief, filling the glasses again. "Wait! What Commission? Are your brains completely addled, Harold? You could lose your head here, and yet you're still chasing after money. That's the absolute acme of greed!"
"It's not what I wanted, just the way things have turned out."
For fixed me once again with the gaze of his brown button eyes and sighed as he refilled his empty glass. "Tell me about it."
So I told him. Beginning with that ill-fated night when darkness tempted me into paying a visit to Count Patin. For listened without speaking, biting his plump lips and sometimes scratching the wooden table with a fork, as if he were making notes on it. He only stopped me once, to question me in detail about Paleface, and then shook his head with a frown.
"I don't know any assassin like that in the city. Strange. Where did he come from?"
My story took quite a while, and when I finished my throat was dry. For splashed out some more wine for me and I nodded gratefully.
"You're four times a fool, Harold. You accepted the Commission, although your life would have been in less danger if you'd gone to the Gray Stones. You used a spell nobody knew anything about, and ended up with a hungry demon on your back. You couldn't kill Paleface when you had the chance, and now he'll come back to haunt you again and again. You've been taken for a ride. And some mysterious Master no one's ever heard of before has put in an appearance. Do you admit you're an ass?"
I nodded.
"And you're even more of an ass if you intend to go wandering into the Forbidden Territory."
"It will help me survive in Hrad Spein. Without a map I could be wandering around in there for centuries. Like it or not, I have to, For."
He said nothing, thinking something over.
"Are you sure you really have to make this expedition?"
"Uh-huh."
"You're a fool, oh, what a fool. What was I thinking of when I took you on as an apprentice? All right, listen. Only go there at night. You'll get over the wall without any problems. Better do that in the Port City, beside Stark's old stables. It's a dangerous area, but it won't be your first time in that kind of place. You'll come out straight onto the Street of Men, from there you can get to the Street of the Sleepy Cat, then on to the Street of the Magicians. Don't even stick your nose out onto Graveyard Street-you know why. The Street of the Sleepy Cat is fairly quiet. If everything goes well, make your way over the roofs-I hope the cladding hasn't rotted through yet and it'll take your weight. Traveling way up there is inconvenient, of course, but it's safe-nobody's heard that dead men have learned to fly yet. On the Street of the Sleepy Cat there's an old statue of Sagot-it's the only quiet spot in the area. You can wait out a spot of bother there, if need be. But you must return from the Forbidden Territory before morning, otherwise you'll stay in there forever."
"How do you know all this?" I asked, amazed.
"How?" For chuckled. "I wandered round the place a bit in my younger days-don't look at me like that, and close your mouth. The gnomes had a bank on the Street of the Sleepy Cat, remember? So I paid it a visit. I couldn't actually get inside, the doors were really solidly made, but I saw all sorts of things. None of your toothy-fanged bug-eyed monsters. No, I won't lie, I didn't see anything like that. In fact, I didn't meet anyone at all. The place was empty. The streets were dead, as if everyone had just disappeared. Nothing but the wind and strange sounds, and all sorts of visions, too, hideous abominations. I won't try to frighten you, maybe you won't see anything of the sort. But you take a piece of meat with you and wrap it as tight as you can in elfin drokr. That material won't let through any moisture or any smell. And if, Sagot forbid, you happen to run into some bloodthirsty beast or some dead men from the cemetery, you'll be able to distract them for a few minutes with the meat. Well, I suppose that's all. Don't trust your eyes and ears, just do the job and get out of there. Harold, get out of there as quick as you can."
"And what about the Street of the Magicians?"
"What I don't know, I don't know. I never got that far, kid. What I saw on the Street of Men and the Street of the Sleepy Cat will last me for the rest of my life. The first was more or less calm, but the second was full of all sorts of er ... er ... unpleasant things."
"But why not try to get into the Forbidden Territory from the Street of the Roofers? It's a lot closer, and safer, too, it seems to me."
"Well, you see, Harold, the problem is that no one who has tried entering the Forbidden Zone from the Roofers' side has ever been seen again. So is it really worth taking the risk?"
We both said nothing for a while.
"All right then? Come on, I'll show you where you can sleep. But then again, why don't you stay here with me?"
"Thanks, but I have to get a few things done in town." I got up from the table and picked up my cloak.
"So when have you decided to go?"
"Tonight."
"Tonight? Didn't you say in a couple of days?" the priest asked in surprise.
"Well, I can change my mind, can't I?" I muttered, heading for the door. "Be seeing you, For."
"Good luck, kid. You'll need plenty of it," my old teacher said. "And I'll think about what we can do with that demon of yours."
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?"