Shadow Prowler

17. NEW ACQUAINTANCES

Do you struggle with the Darkness within you?”

I gave a sigh of relief.

So, after all, there were some things in our sinful and long-suffering world that remained unchanged. The old fogey, so advanced in age that all the stuffing had spilled out of him ages ago, was still at his post in front of the gates of the cathedral. His partner was at the other side of the entrance, dozing on his feet and in danger of keeling over and collapsing on the ground at any moment.

“I annihilate the Darkness,” I replied.

“Then enter and address Them,” said the dozy old man, suddenly coming to life.

It’s amazing what the force of habit can do!

“I think I’ll probably do that in the morning. Why bother the gods with pretty trifles?” I said with a chuckle.

“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 other 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 get so 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 that I could never earn that much in ten lifetimes of nonstop thieving.

I was stopped once by the Inner City Guard. My appearance was none too respectable, on account of my clothes. But it was okay. They just asked where I was going, and when they got the answer, they left me alone. It turned out they had already been warned about my visit.

The huge bulk of the royal palace, surrounded by walls that were anything but decorative, occupied a substantial part of the Inner City. A small fortress within the fortress city. Every new king in 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 the 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?”

“You were snuffling.”

“Oh no I wasn’t!” the jester protested, and sat down beside me on a step.

“Oh yes you were.”

“Oh no I wasn’t! And anyway, what do you mean by arguing with the king’s jester?” Kli-Kli asked resentfully, and to confirm what he had just said he put on the green jester’s cap with little bells that he had been holding in his hand.

“I’m not arguing,” I said with a shrug.

“Would you like a carrot?” the goblin asked amicably, producing one from behind his back.

The carrot was almost half as big as Kli-Kli himself. A queen of carrots. A massive great carrot.

“No, thank you.”

“You don’t want any? All right then. I can only ask, and there’ll be more left for me, anyway!”

The jester didn’t try to insist, he just bit a good-sized piece off the orange vegetable and started crunching on it, squinting contentedly at the sun.

“Vegetables are good for you, Harold,” the jester declared with his mouth full. “You can’t live on just meat.”

“Are you and I about to have a gastronomical debate?” I asked, arching one eyebrow.

We just sat there like that, me saying nothing and watching the gnomes at work, Kli-Kli dining and sometimes twitching his little feet, evidently trying to perform some dance that only he knew. I must say that it looked very amusing.

“I have two pieces of news, good and bad. Which one shall I start with?” Kli-Kli asked when there was exactly half of the oversized carrot left.

“The good news, I suppose,” I muttered lazily.

It was hot, but the weather was marvelous, and I was enjoying basking in the sun.

“The good news is this,” said the goblin, shaking the tip of his cap so that the bells jingled joyfully. “You’re going tomorrow morning.” Jingle-jingle.

“Now let’s have the bad news.”

“The bad news is this.” The jester sighed sadly and the bells tinkled mournfully. “Unfortunately, I’m staying in the palace and not going with you.”

“Hmm… Your sense of values is all topsy-turvy, jester,” I hemmed. “It’s the other way round for me. The good news is bad and the bad news is good.”

“Hah,” Kli-Kli sniffed resentfully. “You’ll be sorry yet that I didn’t go with you!”

“Why’s that?”

“Who’s going to protect you on the way?” he asked with a perfectly serious expression on his face.

“I think I’ll get by all right,” I replied in the same tone of voice. “What are the Wild Hearts and the Rat for?”

“By the way, about the Wild Hearts,” Kli-Kli said, and sank his sharp teeth into the unfortunate carrot again. “Have you had a chance to get to know them yet?”

“No. Why, have you?”

“I should say so! They’ve been here for about a week,” the jester answered indignantly.

But of course. How dare I cast doubt on his ability to make new acquaintances.

“I’ll introduce them to you, only from here, at a distance, if you have no objection.”

“Have you managed to offend them already?” The only possible reason for Kli-Kli’s reluctance to approach the soldiers was that the little parasite had played some kind of nasty trick on the Wild Hearts.

“Why do you assume I’ve offended them?” the jester asked sulkily, looking at me with his bright blue eyes full of reproach. “All I did was pour a bucket of water into each of their beds, and they got upset about it.”

“I expect they did!” I chuckled.

“Well then. You see those ones playing dice? The big one with the yellow hair is Honeycomb. The one beside him with the beard is Uncle. The skinny, bald one. He’s the leader of this glum group. And that one over there, the plump one, is called Tomcat. Miaow!” said Kli-Kli as loud as he could, and stuck out his tongue.

“I see,” I said, examining the threesome playing dice.

Honeycomb was a broad-shouldered hulk two yards tall with powerful, sinewy hands, a head that appeared to have no neck but grew straight out of his shoulders, and hair the color of lime-blossom honey. His rather simple features identified him as a country boy. You can tell them from the city types straightaway.

“Huppah!” laughed Uncle as he tossed the dice once again and leaned down over them with his comrades.

Uncle was more than fifty years old, with a few sparse gray hairs that had somehow survived on his bald head, and a thick gray beard. Compared with Honeycomb he didn’t look very tall, but he and the giant Honeycomb and the other Wild Hearts all had one thing in common: the experience of men who serve on the walls of the Lonely Giant on the edge of the Desolate Lands.

“I swear on a h’san’kor,” Tomcat growled, “but your luck’s in today, Uncle! I pass.”

The fat, round-faced Wild Heart’s behavior and harsh voice were nothing at all like a cat’s. The only thing that did lend him any resemblance to the animal was his mustache, which looked a bit like a cat’s whiskers.

“Don’t play if you don’t want to,” his leader laughed.

Tomcat waved his hand at his partners and lay down on the grass in front of the fountain, beside the sleeping soldier.

“I suppose that one must be called Sleepy or Snorer?” I asked ironically.

“The one beside Tomcat?” the jester asked. “No, they call him Loudmouth.”

“Why?”

“How should I know?” asked Kli-Kli, pursing his lips. “They won’t talk to me. And all I did was leave a dead rat in their room!”

“Don’t I recall that just recently you mentioned water in their beds? You didn’t say anything about rats.”

“Well, the rat was a little bit earlier…,” said the jester, embarrassed.

“Never mind, let’s forget it,” I said. “Why don’t you tell me about that pair over there?” I nodded, drawing the goblin’s attention to two soldiers sitting apart from the others and sipping wine from a bottle.

“The rotten swine,” Kli-Kli muttered, ignoring my question. “That’s my wine!”

“Then why have they got it?”

“A trophy of war,” the goblin muttered.

“What?” I asked, surprised by his answer.

“I stuck a nail in that swine’s boot for a joke. But they got angry about it-”

“Naturally, I would have got angry, too, and torn your green head off.”

“They tried to do that, too.” The goblin bit off another piece of carrot. “But all they could get was the bottle. Eh, Harold! If you only know how much effort it cost me to steal it from the king’s wine cellar!”

“You’re the king’s jester. Couldn’t you have just taken it?”

“Pah! How boring you are!” Kli-Kli shook his head in disappointment, setting his little bells jingling in lively fashion. “I can take it, but it’s much more interesting to steal it.”

I didn’t try to argue with him.

“An amusing pair, don’t you think?” he asked, and showed his tongue to the soldier who was holding the bottle.

Amusing? That was putting it mildly! They were amazing! I never thought I would ever see a gnome peacefully sipping a bottle of highly expensive wine with his eternal enemy-a dwarf. The powerfully built dwarf, who could bend horseshoes with his bare hands, and his smaller, narrow-shouldered cousin with a beard, obviously had no intention of going for each other’s throats.

It looked to me as if the lads had already taken a drop too much. Which was strange-one bottle wasn’t usually enough for that with these races.

“Kli-Kli, are you sure that the trophy of war is only one bottle?” I asked the miserable goblin slyly.

“Of course it’s only one,” the jester said, and spat. “They swiped a whole crate from me, but that’s the last bottle.”

That certainly seemed closer to the truth. Even a gnome and a dwarf could easily get tipsy on a crate of wine.

“The ginger one’s called Deler,” Kli-Kli said with another sigh. “In the language of the dwarves that means ‘fire.’ And his friend who stepped on the nail goes by the name of Hallas. In their language that means ‘lucky.’ That one there,” said Kli-Kli, pointing to a man beside a bed of roses, who was practicing with two swords, “is called Eel. Never says a word, and he simply takes no notice of my jokes. It’s impossible to get him stirred up.”

Kli-Kli simply couldn’t bear that kind of insult to his profession. My attention was entirely absorbed by the Wild Heart’s practiced, precise movements. They were entrancing: in the hands of the Garrakan-he was definitely a native of Garrak, you can always tell them by their swarthy skin and blue-black hair-the “brother” and the “sister” swords.

Eel flowed from one position into another, his stance changing every second, the blades slicing through the air with terrifying speed, the sister stabbing so rapidly that my gaze could only catch a blurred gleam of silver lightning. A stroke, another stroke, a jab, a sharp move to the left, the brother descends onto the head of an invisible opponent, a swing around his axis and Eel’s arm stretches out to an unnatural length, extended by the sister, to reach a new enemy’s stomach. The Wild Heart takes a step backward, covering himself with the brother against an imaginary slashing blow from the right and then, out of defense, he suddenly strikes with both blades at once. The sister pierces the head of an imaginary opponent in a predatory thrust and the brother strikes a terrible blow lower down, below the shield.

“Beautiful!” the jester said with an admiring whistle.

I entirely agreed with him. Despite the heat of the scorching sun, Eel continued with his training and performed it astonishingly well. He was well muscled and agile, with a red, aristocratic face and a slim beard.

“Harold, take a look at that individual over there, the funny one.”

I couldn’t see anything funny about the soldier the jester pointed to. He looked a bit like Tomcat, but he wasn’t so well fed. An entirely unremarkable face with thin lips and arched eyebrows, pale blue eyes, and a lazy glance that loitered for a moment on me and Kli-Kli.

“So what do you find funny about him?” I asked the jester.

“Not the man, you blockhead!” the jester exclaimed. “By the way, his name’s Marmot. I meant the animal on his shoulder.”

It was only then I looked closer at what I had taken for a tasteless decoration of gray fur on the soldier’s shoulder. It was a small, furry animal, dozing quietly.

“What is it?” I asked, giving the jester a curious glance.

“A ling. From the Desolate Lands. It’s tame. I tried to feed it some carrot a couple of times. It actually scratched me,” the goblin said.

“You were unlucky,” I sympathized.

“I was really lucky,” Kli-Kli disagreed. “If Marmot had caught me when I was feeding his little animal rotten carrots, he wouldn’t have given me a pat on the head. I swear he would have flattened me!”

At this point I couldn’t restrain myself any longer and burst into laughter.

“Now I understand why you’ve decided not to go with me, Kli-Kli! Almost everyone who’s traveling has a grudge against you. They’d throw you into the first ditch at the edge of the road!”

“Nothing of the sort,” the goblin protested with a sniff. “It’s Artsivus and Alistan. They don’t want to let me go.”

Kli-Kli shook his fist at the sky in annoyance.

“Hey, Marmot, don’t happen to feel like going to the kitchen, do you?” the Wild Heart who hadn’t spoken so far asked his friend stretched out on the grass.

Judging from the chain mail and the lack of hair on his head, the soldier was a native of the Border Kingdom. Only they would be prepared to burden themselves with metal even in this blazing sun. The man from the Borderland had just stopped sharpening his sword, and now he was looking for something to do.

“What for? What is there I haven’t seen in the kitchen?” Marmot asked in a lazy voice.

“You can feed Invincible; he’ll die from hunger soon. He doesn’t do anything but sleep and sleep.”

“He sleeps because it’s hot, but let’s go to the kitchen anyway, I know what you’re after.”

“We all know that,” Tomcat put in, getting up off the grass. “The cooks are really tasty!”

Honeycomb and Uncle started laughing merrily and the Wild Heart who had suggested the walk joined in the laughter.

“Well, are we going then?” asked the Borderman.

“That’s Arnkh,” said Kli-Kli, introducing the man to me. “It means ‘scar’ in orcish.”

“He doesn’t look like an orc.”

“He’s a man, blockhead! It’s just a nickname.”

There was the thin white line of a scar running across Arnkh’s forehead.

“Listen, Kli-Kli,” I said impatiently. “The lieutenant brought me here and told me to wait until someone came to get me. How long do I have to wait? I’m about ready to melt in this heat.”

“I came to get you,” the jester giggled.

“Then what are we waiting for?”

“Hang on, Harold, what’s the hurry? The king’s lecturing his subjects, giving them what for, and they’re all silent, pale, and sweaty. Why would you want to be there? Look over that way; I still haven’t told you about the last Wild Heart.”

The last of the ten Wild Hearts was sitting under a spreading apple tree, clutching a massive bidenhander with both hands. It looked to me as if the two-handed sword was too heavy for this short and apparently not very strong man. There was a golden oak leaf on the hefty black handle of the sword.

“Is he a master of the long sword?” I asked the goblin in disbelief.

“You can see the handle, can’t you? Of course he’s a master, unless he stole that lump of metal from someone.”

“But that thing weighs more than he does!”

“No it doesn’t,” the goblin objected. “But it is heavy, that’s true. I checked that myself.”

“Don’t tell me you tried to pinch the lad’s sword!”

“Naah, I just wanted to know how much it weighs. There was a real crash when I couldn’t hold it any longer and dropped it on the dwarf’s foot.”

I didn’t answer; I was busy studying the man. He wore a funny hat that looked like one of the cathedral bells.

“He’s called Mumr. But everyone calls him Lamplighter. Oh no!”

Kli-Kli’s final phrase was not addressed to me. Lamplighter had taken out a little reed pipe, set down the bidenhander, and was about to play.

“Anything but that!” the goblin wailed.

Mumr blew, and the pipe gave out an excruciating, hoarse screech. The jester howled and pressed his hands to his ears. If there had been any dogs nearby, they would certainly have started howling, or died in torment.

“I’m going to throw this at him!” Kli-Kli said, grinding his teeth and shaking the stub of the carrot in his hand.

“Hey, Uncle!” Deler called to the leader of the Wild Hearts. “Tell Mumr to shut up!”

“That’s right!” Hallas agreed, raising the bottle to his mouth.

“Let me get some sleep, will you?” Loudmouth muttered sleepily, turning over onto his other side.

Without interrupting his game of dice, Uncle found a small stone beside him and flung it at Lamplighter. In order to dodge the flying missile, Lamplighter had to break off tormenting his poor whistle.

“You ignoramuses,” he said, annoyed. “You don’t know a thing about music!”

“And that’s what it’s been like all week, Harold,” Kli-Kli said, taking a deep breath.

“And, of course, you know about Miralissa,” he said. “It doesn’t take a wizard to see that your interest has been awakened. La-la, she is something, isn’t she?”

“Jester, you must be hallucinating. I think these Wild Hearts have bopped you one time too many.”

I hadn’t noticed Kli-Kli reaching into my unguarded bag. Now he was holding one of the little magical bottles in his hand, one that contained a dark cherry colored liquid with gold sparks floating in it.

“Put it back,” I roared at the goblin, but it was too late.

Kli-Kli nimbly dodged my outstretched arms, dashed across to the gnomes, who had finally loaded the cannon, and flung my magical purchase. The bottle tinkled as it broke against the barrel of the cannon. There was a bright crimson flash, and the weapon disappeared.

What in the name of the Nameless One had possessed me to buy a transport spell from Honchel? (Does carrying a mountain of things seem too much like hard work? Nothing could be simpler! Break one little bottle against your load, and it simply disappears. Break another, and it appears again.) I’d been keeping that magic for Hrad Spein. Just in case I stumbled across any old heaps of diamonds or emeralds. Farewell, treasures of the dead! I’ve inherited the gnomes’ cannon instead.

A shocked silence hung over the garden. Even Eel stopped twirling his swords. But the silence didn’t last for long. It was shattered by the insane howling of the furious gnomes. Kli-Kli didn’t bother to wait for their retribution; he came dashing back to me at full tilt, bells jingling.

“Harold, stop dawdling!” Kli-Kli exclaimed. “Follow me, I’ll take you to the king.”

And so saying, the goblin disappeared through a door. I was seething with fury, but there was nothing I could do except follow the little blackguard.