Shadow Prowler (43 page)

“You’re not the only one who can open locks, Harold,” the goblin said, and his blue eyes flashed merrily. “There’s a secret passage here. . . . Are you ready?”

“Just a moment, let me get my things together,” I muttered.

“Everything was collected and packed into Little Bee’s saddlebags ages ago. I took the liberty of making sure my best friend was all right.”

“And just who is this best friend of yours?”

As ever, the jester left my ironical question unanswered, and handed me a plate with a breakfast that was still warm.

On the way we met that inseparable pair, Hallas and Deler, also walking in the direction of the stables, arguing animatedly. Those leopards would never change their spots. I was surprised to see them both alive and well, which meant that the battle between them had not taken place after all. The Wild Hearts joined us and we walked the rest of the way together.

“Why don’t you tell me where you went last night?” Deler growled resentfully.

“To visit relatives in town,” Hallas replied imperturbably.

“Aha, of course,” the dwarf chortled. “They’d be really glad to see you at two in the morning. They’d be expecting you. You were chasing the women again, I suppose?”

“And what if I was?” Hallas retorted furiously. “What business is that of yours?”

“And you brought back some kind of sack,” said Deler, still growling.

The gnome had a plain canvas sack hanging over his shoulder. The kind that miners use for carrying precious stones in the Steel Mines.

“And what of it?” Hallas asked, and started lighting his pipe. Deler wrinkled up his nose contemptuously.

“What are you carrying in that sack?” the dwarf asked curiously.

“I don’t ask you what you’ve got in your keg,” said the gnome, trying everything he could to change the subject.

“Who needs to ask?” said Deler, rather surprised, and he shook the
large keg that he was carrying with both arms, puffing and panting. I ought to say that the keg was half the size of the dwarf, and there was something splashing about happily inside it. “It’s got wine in it.”

“And where did you manage to get hold of such valuable treasure?” Hallas chortled, blowing rings of tobacco smoke.

“Kli-Kli gave me a hand,” the dwarf said with a joyful smile. “It’s from Stalkon’s cellars.”

“And what are you going to do with it?”

“Drink it! You stupid mattockhead!” the dwarf roared. “What else can you do with wine? I’ll hang it on my horse and gradually drain it dry.” Deler pronounced these last words with a dreamy expression on his face.

We reached the stables, where the first things to catch my eye were saddled horses and armed men. All the familiar Wild Hearts were here, too, only now it would have been hard for the inexpert eye to tell that they were Wild Hearts and not just ordinary soldiers from some border garrison.

The famed badges in the form of hearts with teeth had been ruthlessly torn off the worn leather jackets. And I noticed that the handle of Lamplighter’s huge sword had been wrapped in a strip of black cloth that concealed the golden oak leaf of a master swordsman. Just one more precaution or attempt to avoid attracting any unnecessary attention. In some miraculous way, Mumr had actually managed to attach his favorite toy, the bidenhander, beside his saddlebags, evidently frightening his unfortunate dappled mare half to death in the process.

“Time to go, Harold,” the jester reminded me.

So there weren’t going to be any farewell speeches from the king and Artsivus. They weren’t even there. But then, why should they bother seeing off men who were already as good as dead, and anyway they must have been up to their eyes sorting out the consequences of last night’s attack. What time could they spare for thinking about our little expedition?

I walked up to Little Bee and greeted her with a pat on the neck. She replied with a joyful whinny, and I climbed into the saddle.

The jester looked up and said: “There are the last of your companions.” He pointed to the two elves beside Miralissa. “Ell from the House of the Black Rose and Egrassa from the House of the Black Moon.”

I cast a curious glance at the elves. Ell, with a thick head of ash-gray hair and a fringe that almost covered his amber eyes, was just putting on a helmet that completely covered his face. He had a rather broad nose and a heavy lower jaw.

Egrassa had a thin silvery diadem on his head—evidently a mark of distinction of some kind—and he and Miralissa were talking in low voices. I looked closely at the thoroughbred face with high cheekbones, the slanting eyes, and the solidly built figure of a true warrior.

“Are the two of them related?” I asked Kli-Kli, leaning down as far toward him as I could.

“Mm, yes, I think he’s her cousin. But he’s definitely a relative of some kind and definitely from the royal line—that’s a fact! Even you can tell that from the idiotic
ssa
in his name. Right. I’ll go and say good-bye to the dwarf and the gnome,” the goblin muttered, and disappeared.

Miralissa sensed my glance and looked round. The luxurious Miranueh dress was gone, replaced by ordinary male elfin clothes. The tall hairstyle was gone, too, transformed into an ash-gray braid that reached all the way down to her waist. And the elfess, like her companions, had an elfin sword, or s’kash, hanging behind her back and, nestling beside it, a formidable bow and a quiver full of heavy arrows fletched with black feathers.

Unlike human soldiers, the elves have a conservative attitude to weapons, and they normally use only crooked swords or longbows. Other weapons are employed only on an occasional basis.

Uncle’s platoon, however, had all sorts of death-dealing devices with them, from the ordinary swords and crossbows hanging beside their saddlebags to ogre-clubs, battle-mattocks, poleaxes, and bidenhanders. And then every second man had a round shield, too. An impressive little arsenal for an impressive team.

I was greatly surprised by Milord Alistan’s appearance as he gave final instructions to Lieutenant Izmi, who was taking over his command of the guards. He wasn’t wearing his famous armor. It had been replaced by a jacket just like the ones the Wild Hearts were wearing, with metal badges sewn onto it. Of course, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had chain mail or something even heavier on a pack horse, like all the Wild Hearts, but the very fact that the Rat was setting out without the armor that had become like a second skin to him . . .

Meanwhile Alistan finished briefing Izmi and leapt up into the saddle of his huge black steed.

No, really, what was I so worried about? In company like this? With the protection of their swords I was in for a pleasant outing, perhaps with a little miraculous adventure.

“Forward!” shouted Count Markauz, slapping his heels against his horse’s flanks.

“Good luck, Dancer in the Shadows!” The jester whispered his farewell to me in an absolutely normal voice.

May a h’san’kor tear me to pieces. At long last we’re on our way, may all the gods of Siala help us.

A
vendoom had been left behind. The majestic, forbidding walls built of gray stone from the Quarries of Ol had dissolved in the morning mist that the waking sun had startled from the earth and then left to tremble in the air for a few minutes like a frightened white moth. And after that the morning had simply flitted past, like some elusive, phantom bird, and disappeared beyond the horizon to make way for a scorching hot noon.

All the Wild Hearts had taken off their jackets and were wearing just their shirts. The only exception was Arnkh, in the eternal chain mail that he never removed even for a second. Perhaps if I’d been born beside the Forests of Zagraba and was used to expecting an attack by orcs at any minute, I would have put on Markauz’s armor, let alone chain mail, even in this heat.

I had also unfastened the collar of my shirt and rolled up the sleeves—something that I greatly regretted when the evening came and my skin had turned a magnificent shade of crimson, so that for the next few days it became a serious obstacle to my enjoyment of life.

Markauz and the elves led the way along the road, followed by the Wild Hearts, in twos and threes. At first Marmot kept me company—and he proved to be a rather talkative and interesting companion—then we were joined by Hallas and Deler.

The sure-handed dwarf had managed to make a long tube out of the materials at hand and stick it into his cask of wine. Now, when Uncle wasn’t watching them, the dwarf and the gnome took sly sips of the nectar of the gods, occasionally exclaiming in delight at this heavenly bliss vouchsafed to them. They were both gradually getting
merrier and merrier, and I began to feel worried that one of them would overdo it, slip out of his saddle, and smash his head on the ground. But no, they simply got a bit red in the face and started singing a bold soldier’s song about some campaign or other. Uncle, who was talking to Eel, kept casting suspicious glances at these new singers and his face gradually turned darker and darker. The platoon leader clearly sensed that there was something shady going on, but he simply couldn’t figure out how his soldiers could suddenly be drunk.

The dwarf discoursed with the air of a connoisseur on Miralissa’s good points as a woman. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who looked upon her forthright but very feminine grace with pleasure and interest. He and Hallas agreed that she had quite a few good points, only the fangs spoiled the general impression. After a moment’s thought, the gnome said that you could always put a cloth over her face and then proceed as Mother Nature prompted, to which Marmot, who had kept silent all this time, suggested that the two learned theoreticians should shut up, or at least lower their voices half a tone, otherwise Miralissa would draw her s’kash from its scabbard and slice the beard off one of them and something a bit lower off the other. I couldn’t have agreed more. There was silence for a moment, and then the dwarf said, “I didn’t mean any offense. I only decided to talk about the elfess for a bit of relaxation.”

“You can relax in the Forests of Zagraba, when the elves hang you upside down from a tree for insulting a princess of their house,” Marmot retorted, and stroked his pet ling.

That finally soured the discussion of the elfess, and the gnome and the dwarf launched into a two-hour philosophical debate about the advantages and disadvantages of weapons with long handles. As always, Hallas and Deler contradicted each other furiously, constantly clenching their fists and trading lavish insults.

As was only to be expected, the argument between the gnome and the dwarf ended in a tie. And after another hour or so, Deler made a truly difficult decision and declared that enough wine had been tasted for one day, otherwise they’d soon have to start looking for another cask, and the likelihood of finding one on the road was illusory to say the least, not to say equal to zero. For some reason Lamplighter, who was riding last in our unit, found this last phrase highly amusing. He
was tootling some simple little tune on his reed pipe, and I must admit that this music was better than the first time I had heard Mumr play—this time it only made me want to howl mournfully at the moon.

I jabbed my heels into Little Bee’s sides, hurried forward, and quietly fell in behind the horses of Miralissa and Markauz.

“According to my calculations, if we keep moving at this pace, we’ll reach Ranneng in less than two weeks. From there to the Iselina is no distance at all, and then it’s another two weeks to the Border Kingdom. And another week to the Forests of Zagraba,” the elfess said to Markauz, who was listening carefully.

“That means a month and a half, then?” asked Milord Alistan, chewing thoughtfully on his mustache, before he noticed that I had joined their group.

“That’s not allowing for any unplanned events,” said Egrassa, who seemed inclined to look on the dark side.

Well, well, so there were pessimists among the elves, too. And I thought only human beings were capable of doubting and expecting the worst.

“And in addition, we can’t stay in the saddle round the clock. I think we’ll need at least a couple of days’ rest in Ranneng.”

“I don’t think we ought to go into Ranneng,” I put in.

“Thanks for your advice, Harold,” Alistan replied rather impolitely.

I could see he didn’t feel he needed advice from anyone, especially not from a thief.