Shadow Prowler

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.

The warm weather had obliged me to abandon my cloak and put on a black jacket with a hood. I could feel in my bones that I’d be doing plenty of running that night, and a cloak hampers your movements too much. You can’t go jumping across the roofs when it keeps trying to wind itself round your legs.

The new crossbow was hanging behind my back, together with the thin traveling companion string. I’d only brought some of my purchases from Honchel with me, and asked him to deliver the remainder of the goods directly to the king at his palace.

The trembling passed, simply disappeared like the cold wind from the Desolate Lands. I adjusted my broad belt with the pockets in which the crossbow bolts were drowsing snugly. A little bag containing several of Honchel’s glass vials and a knife hanging on my right hip added to my weight, but after doing my job for so many years, I no longer paid any attention to these minor hindrances.

Lying at my feet was an impressive lump of beefsteak. I’d barely got to the butcher’s shop in time, just as he was shutting up his shop for the night. I’d wrapped the meat in a piece of elfin drokr.

Boommmm! A single chime of the cathedral’s magic bell rang out in the night.

That boom could be heard in every corner of Avendoom, announcing the arrival of midnight.

It was time.

I picked the piece of meat up off the ground, broke cover, and set off at a quick run toward the magic wall. But before I had covered even half the distance, I heard the clatter of feet from behind a crooked little old house with a broken-down porch and a sagging roof. I swore and dashed back into the safe gloom of the abandoned stables.

A lone Doralissian appeared at the beginning of the alley. In his hand he was clutching a club. As it happened, I recognized this particular goat. Doralissians’ faces, of course, are all alike, and it’s hard for the human eye to tell them apart, but a specimen with only one horn on his head, and a crooked one at that, is not something you come across very often, and that makes him very hard to forget. This bastard had been involved in the memorable run that time when I called Vukhdjaaz down to torment me.

The Doralissian stopped no more than a yard away from me and snorted loudly. My patience finally gave out and I decided to help the stinking beast’s mental processes move a bit faster.

“Be-e-e,” One-Horn bleated in fright when I set the knife to his throat.

“Drop the club, little billy goat,” I whispered politely from behind his back.

Wonder of wonders! Without reacting at all to the words “billy goat,” the Doralissian opened his fingers. The club clattered on the surface of the road.

“Good boy!” I tried to breathe through my mouth.

Of course, One-Horn was not Vukhdjaaz, but the smell of musk was still not very pleasant.

“Do you know who I am?”

He was about to bleat something, but wisely remained silent. I had the knife pressed too tightly against his neck. Those beasts are as strong as trolls with a belly full of magic mushrooms; give One-Horn a chance and he’d be perfectly capable of snapping me in two with his bare hands. But I didn’t want to give him that chance.

“You’ll be able to speak now. But I advise you not to do anything stupid, otherwise I’ll start getting nervous, and blood will flow. Do we understand each other, my friend?”

The Doralissian gave a sound like a hiccup, which I decided, by way of exception, to interpret as agreement to behave.

“All right, we’ll try the question again. Do you know who I am?”

“No-o-o.”

“I’m Harold.”

One-Horn tensed up, but I immediately pressed my knife harder against his neck.

“Whoa there! No stupid tricks.”

“You-ou’ve got our Horse! Give it ba-a-ack!” the goat bleated, after which I decided to give him just one more chance.

“Who said that I have the Horse?” I asked quickly.

“A ma-a-a-an.”

“Naturally, not a dragon. Who exactly?”

“A ma-a-a-an. Very whi-i-i-ite.”

“White?” I asked.

“Er-er-er-er…” The Doralissian clicked his fingers, trying to find the word. “Pa-a-a-ale.”

I wonder why I’m not surprised? All roads lead to my friend Paleface-wounded, scorched, but still clinging to life. And, consequently, to the guild of thieves of Avendoom, and Markun in particular. They must have lifted the Stone in order to pin the job on me. Not what I’d call an elegant move, but effective.

And then my humble personage conceived a brilliantly insane idea.

“I’ll give you back the Horse. In a little while.”

“When?”

“In two nights’ time.”

“Tomo-o-o-rrow night?”

The beast is just too stupid after all. Tell me, if you can, how I can conduct serious diplomatic negotiations with it? It will get everything confused, the halfwit. I rolled my eyes up, imploring Sagot to grant me patience, and said, slowly and deliberately, “This night. Then another one, and then the night when you’ll get your relic back. On Wednesday. Do you know what Wednesday is?”

“Yes.”

“There, see how simple it all is!” I said delightedly, proud of my talent for explaining everything in a way that even those who have absolutely no brain at all can understand. “Do you happen to know where the Knife and Ax is?”

“Yes.”

“Great! You make my heart rejoice, my lad. Right then, in two nights’ time. Precisely at midnight. You and your friends come to the inn. You’ll get your Horse there. Remember, precisely at midnight, not a minute earlier and not a minute later, or you’ll never see the Stone. Got that? Or should I say it one more time?”

“Glok understands.”

“Wonderful, my dear fellow. Now, I’m going to take away the knife, and you’re going to walk off. If you so much as twitch, you’ll get a crossbow bolt in your back. And you’ll never lay eyes on your Horse. Do we understand each other?”

“We do, man. Let me go.”

I removed the knife and quickly moved back several steps, at the same time taking the loaded crossbow out from behind my back. The Doralissian didn’t move a muscle.

“You’re free to go, tell your leader what I told you.”

The goat looked round cautiously, saw the weapon, and nodded sourly. His expression really didn’t look all that pleased.

“We’ll wai-ai-ait, Ha-a-arold. Don’t trick us, or you’re a dead man.”

The Doralissian melted away into the night. I listened to his receding steps, picked up the meat for the third time that night, hurriedly tied it to my belt with its tapes, and ran across to the wall.

The rest was a simple matter of technique. Jump up, grab the edge with my hands, pull myself up, throw a leg over, jump down onto the ground. That was the simple, banal way I found myself in the Forbidden Territory.