Shadow Prowler Part 3

"I have begun gathering an army," the king said with a frown. "By the end of the year I hope to put at least fifty thousand men in the field against the Nameless One. Some will have to be left on the borders with Zagraba and Miranueh. And there is also the militia, but that is merely a gesture of despair. We need to announce a levy, but I am afraid that there will be a panic, the prices of goods will shoot sky-high, and we shall have refugees. Thank the G.o.ds we have the dark elves on our side, as well as the gnomes and their cannon."

"I beg your pardon, Your Majesty, I ... I have no doubts concerning the gnomes-dump a sackful of gold pieces in front of them, and they'll make war on their own grandmother-but the elves ... Are you sure about them?"

"We have no need to lie," said the woman, throwing back her veil. "I myself have seen the army of the Nameless One preparing for war beyond the Needles of Ice."

My jaw dropped. The person gazing at me was an elfess. A genuine dark elfess.

The bewitching charm of the elves. It was invented by the same storyteller who thought up the goblins' thirst for blood. It is only in fairy tales that elves are beautiful, only in fairy tales that they are immortal, only in fairy tales do they have golden hair, green eyes, melodic voices, and a light, floating step. And only in fairy tales are elves wise, truthful, just, and chivalrous. In real life ...

In real life anyone who knew no better could take an elf from the forests of Zagraba and I'alyala for an orc. Because the fairy-tale beauty of the elves lauded to the heavens by drunken storytellers in the taverns simply doesn't exist.

Well of course, there are some attractive faces even among this race, but they're certainly no paragon of beauty. Elves look like people, except for their swarthy skin, yellow eyes, black lips, and ash-gray hair. And those protruding fangs put a real scare into the unsophisticated philistine and the lover of old wives' tales.

Don't believe in the kindheartedness of the elves. One day, if you are unlucky, you may be present at an elfin torture session, when they apply the Green Leaf to their closest relatives, the orcs.

That's right. Orcs and elves appeared in Siala in the very same year. But the orcs arrived here just a little before the elves, for which the ashen-haired ones can never forgive them. And, apart from the ogres, the elves and the orcs were the first to be brought to Siala by the G.o.ds. The race of orcs was granted pride and fury, and the elves cunning and guile. But both of them received yet another gift-hatred. To this day they still make war, slaying each other in large numbers in the thousands upon thousands of b.l.o.o.d.y battles that take place in the boundless Forests of Zagraba.

The gnomes and the dwarves, Doralissians and men, centaurs and giants, and the mult.i.tude of other races that inhabit Siala only appeared later. But the first arrivals were the unsuccessful children-the orcs and elves. Afterward the elves divided into dark and light, although the only difference between them is that the dark elves employ shamanism, and the light elves use wizardry.

The dark and light elves are not hostile to each other; they simply regard each other with a considerable degree of contempt. Even now the dark elves cannot understand why their relatives use an alien magic, not original to their race. About two thousand years ago they found themselves unable to live together, and so they separated. The dark elves remained in the Forests of Zagraba, while the light elves moved away to the Forests of I'alyala, which lie beside the Crest of the World.

"Allow me to introduce you, Harold," said the king, indicating the elfess. "This is Lady Miralissa from the House of the Black Moon."

I bowed with restraint. A name with the ending ssa ssa indicated that the elfess was from the Supreme Family of the house. In simple worlds, a personage of the royal blood. Well now, this was beginning to add up. Harold has a sharp eye. indicated that the elfess was from the Supreme Family of the house. In simple worlds, a personage of the royal blood. Well now, this was beginning to add up. Harold has a sharp eye.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, milady."

"Likewise."

"The pleasantries can wait," the king declared. "We have very little time and you, Harold, will have to help us."

"To stop the Nameless One?" I asked skeptically.

If that's it, then the king or his advisers really have lost their grip.

"Yes," said the archmagician.

Then everybody in this room is definitely deranged!

Alistan was observing me closely, trying to discover any sign of mockery of his king. I refrained. It was hard, certainly, but I refrained. The jester didn't, though. The goblin burst into laughter and fell on the carpet, clutching at his stomach.

"The life of the kingdom is in the hands of a thief! Watch out that he doesn't filch it!"

I personally didn't find that at all funny.

"Quiet, Kli-Kli," Alistan said sternly, keeping his eyes fixed intently on me.

"All right, I hold my tongue, I repent, I die." The goblin flung his arms out in a tragic gesture.

"Of course, I am flattered by such an honor," I began cautiously, trying not to provoke the lunatics. "But does it not seem to you that I have rather less power and experience than the Order and the Wild Hearts, and it will be rather difficult to stop this wizard single-handedly?"

The goblin t.i.ttered and collapsed onto the carpet again. "Oh, Harold!" said the jester, wiping away genuine tears. "Not only are you clever and bold, you are c.o.c.ksure, too."

"Then what does my task consist of, Your Majesty?" I carried on playing the fool, waiting for the moment when they might let me go.

And then I'll run for it. I don't give a d.a.m.n where, anywhere will do, even the Sultanate, just as long as it's as far away as possible. To lands where there are no insane kings, crazy jesters, and senile geriatric wizards.

"We need the Rainbow Horn," the elfess said. "It is the only thing that can halt the Nameless One. I fear that even the army will not be able to stand against the full battle host of the Desolate Lands."

"The Rainbow Horn?" I echoed stupidly. "What has it got to do with this?"

"I have already explained," Artsivus said with a frown of annoyance. "Is your fear beginning to affect your hearing?"

"Understand this, Harold. The magic of the ogres is not ideal and in many ways it is crude, even though it is very powerful, but the law of equilibrium ..." The elfess pursed her black lips ironically, exposing her fangs even more. And still she possessed an exotic beauty. "As time pa.s.ses, the Horn loses its magical properties. It has to be ..."

"Reactivated," the archmagician prompted, staring into the flames that were merrily consuming the wood in the hearth.

"Yes, magically charged after a certain period of time. Otherwise nothing will remain of its special properties. The Horn is weakening at this moment, that is why the Nameless One has begun to stir beyond the Needles of Ice. We need you to get the artifact for the Order."

"You mean you don't have it?" I asked, astounded.

"That is precisely the point. We don't," the Rat exclaimed furiously. "And all thanks to the stupidity of the Order."

"The Order acted out of the very best of motives!" the archmagician retorted sharply.

"Well, we're certainly paying for them now!"

"Your job, milord Alistan, is to protect the king's life and brandish that piece of ironmongery you carry, not to interfere in the business of the Order!" The old man was simply seething with indignation and his beard wagged in a way that reminded me of a Doralissian whose favorite horse has been stolen.

"That's enough!" the king roared furiously. He didn't seem anything like a good-natured innkeeper now. "Explain the thief's task to him."

"About three hundred years ago," Artsivus began, speaking in a dull voice and casting a hostile glance at the captain of the guard from under his thick gray eyebrows, "the Council of the Order decided to use the Horn to annihilate the Kronk-a-Mor that binds the Nameless One to this world. We ... we did not quite manage it. ..."

Alistan snorted loudly.

"We ought to send Your Magicship to Miranueh as a diplomat! Perhaps we would get the disputed lands then? Not quite Not quite ..." The jester giggled, savoring those two words, but then his eyes met the magician's stern gaze, and he shut up. ..." The jester giggled, savoring those two words, but then his eyes met the magician's stern gaze, and he shut up.

"Yes ... Nothing came of our attempt. We tried to control the magic of the ogres, about which we knew absolutely nothing. A power flow was shorted out at the wrong point or an operon was shifted several degrees off the fifth astral position. ... Mmm, yes ..." Artsivus realized that he had wandered into tangled thickets that were absolutely impenetrable to anyone but himself. "It was all out of control, and the sudden surge of magic struck Avendoom. Or rather, part of it. The part that is now known as the Secret Territory."

"So that's how it appeared ... ," I drawled.

"Do you realize how grateful the inhabitants of the glorious capital of Valiostr would be if they only knew who was responsible for putting the Stain on the map?" The goblin opened his eyes wide, transforming them into two small blue lakes.

The archmagician sighed heavily-evidently I was not the only one already weary of the jester-and continued: "The Order decided to put the Horn as far out of harm's way as possible. They charged it, then took it to Grok's sepulchre and left it there. And that, in effect, is the entire story."

"And you want me to get the Horn out of the grave?" I asked in amazement. "But what do you need me for? Any gravedigger with a spade could manage a simple little job like that! And by the way, where is Grok buried?"

A tense, oppressive silence filled the little room. The elfess and Artsivus exchanged astonished glances. The Count of the Rat gave a crooked smile and looked at me disdainfully. I will pa.s.s over the jester and his drooping jaw in polite silence. The king was the only one who carried on as before, twirling my knife in his hands, sometimes glancing at me and trying to figure out if I was deliberately playing the fool.

"Hm-hmm. Young man, do you know any history at all?" the magician asked cautiously.

"It would be about as much use to me as a h'san'kor. I'm a thief, not a learned old maid." I was getting seriously tired of this buffoonery.

These lads certainly know how to wind up a man's nerves.

"Why, he probably doesn't even know how to read," the goblin declared with a pompous air.

I ignored that.

"The Horn is buried with Grok in the Palaces of Bone, Harold," the elfess said in a quiet voice, and she shuddered as if her swarthy skin had been touched by a cold wind from beyond the Mountains of Despair.

That was when I burst into laughter, realizing that these five lunatics were hoaxing me.

"He's gone crazy," the jester said in response to my laughter, shaking his green head dismally so that the little bells on his cap jangled sadly.

"They're joking, aren't they, Your Majesty? They must be! Why Hrad Spein? Wouldn't it be easier for me to draw up a new Vastar's Bargain and invite dragons to protect our beloved homeland? Or tame a h'san'kor for you? Believe me, I could manage that far more easily and much more quickly than an excursion to Hrad Spein!"

"They are not joking," the king said in a serious voice, and the next burst of laughter stuck in my throat.

Isn't that just wonderful! All I have to do is go down into Hrad Spein to retrieve some stupid magical whistle. ...

"We need that Horn, Master Harold," said the elfess, speaking to me tenderly, as if I were a capricious little child. "And we need it urgently. Before the onset of winter."

"But why me?"

"Because only a tricky and cunning man will pa.s.s where a large troop of soldiers or magicians will get stuck in the mire. The finest thief in the kingdom, for instance. Yes, yes. Don't try to be modest. We know far more about you than you think."

"Does this mean others have already tried to get the Horn?"

"A hundred thousand demons! Yes!" Alistan clenched and unclenched his fists several times. "Do you really think we would have turned to a thief if there were any other way of getting into the d.a.m.ned catacombs? We sent the first expedition in winter. Of those who went down underground, none returned, and those who waited up above were cut down by orcs. The second party set out in early spring. In view of the failure of the first expedition, we sent an expedition of more than a hundred men. Experienced soldiers, eight magicians of the Order, plus support from the dark elves, who acted as our guides in the Forests of Zagraba. ... And, may the demons take me, nothing came of it! Eighty men went down into the burial sites, and only one came back out, as white-haired as a snow owl and completely insane. The remnants of the second expedition arrived in Avendoom a week ago. All eight magicians were left behind, underground. With seventy-one other men, more than half of whom were my soldiers!"

"And now you've decided a thief will be able to do what a hundred men couldn't," I summed up.

Wonderful, the big shots have failed to do the impossible and now they want a lowly thief to do their bidding. I wonder which brilliant mind came up with this idea?

"Can I refuse?" This was a purely rhetorical question, as Brother For likes to say.

"Yes, Baron Lanten is still outside the door. You can take a ride to the Gray Stones with him," Alistan laughed.

I get it. So that's the way it is. Either take your chances in Hrad Spein or rot in the Gray Stones-and who knows which is better? If it was up to me, I'd choose the Gray Stones, but I can probably risk it and try to trick the whole Council of Lunatics.

"I accept," I said, nodding, and got up out of my armchair. "Can I go now? To carry out my mission?"

At least it seemed like I had a real chance to cut and run before they really had me on the hook.

"Of course," the king said with a feeble wave of his hand, and his immense ring glinted as it caught the light of a candle. "You accept the Commission?"

At that point I sat back down in the armchair. I'd thought I was going to trick them all, thought I was the most slippery eel there, but they were the ones who had tricked me.

When a master thief performs a task for a client, he accepts a Commission, which renders the agreement between thief and client stronger than any amount of gold could. In accepting a Commission, a thief undertakes to carry it out (or, if he is unsuccessful, to return the initial pledge, together with interest on the total value of the deal), and the client commits himself to paying in full when the task has been completed.

The Commission is an inviolable contract between the master thief and the client. And it cannot be violated, torn up, or put aside without the agreement of both parties. As the masters say, you can cheat and break a contract even with darkness, but not with Sagot. The punishment will follow immediately-something like falling into the firm grip of the guards at the scene of the crime, finding yourself in prison, or running into a knife in a perfectly safe alleyway. Luck will simply turn her back on the night hunter. And the client will not flourish if he refuses to pay, without good reason. The patron of thieves turns a blind eye to the doings of footpads and petty criminals, but not to those of master thieves following sound and reliable leads.

To refuse the Commission meant confessing to my recent lie about being willing to cooperate and being sent to the most uncomfortable cell in the Gray Stones, with a grand view of the Cold Sea. To accept meant that I couldn't make a run for it, because the Commission wouldn't let me go. There was no way I could pull out of it. "What are the terms?" I asked Stalkon hopelessly.

"You must deliver the Rainbow Horn to the capital before the beginning of January."

"The payment?"

"Fifty thousand pieces of gold."

"As the pledge?" I tried to keep my voice steady.

Fifty thousand ... well, of course, it's not half the kingdom or the hand of the princess from the fairy tale, but it offers plenty of scope. ... Several generations could live well on that amount of money. The fortunes of certain barons and counts are no more than a third of the sum proposed.

"How much do you want?"

I thought for a moment, hesitating.

"A hundred will do."

"You'll get the money as you leave the palace. By the way, don't forget your toys. Is that all?"

"I request you to p.r.o.nounce the official formula. That is, of course, if Your Majesty is familiar with it."

"I request Shadow Harold to accept my Commission," said the king, speaking the official formulation of a contract between a thief and a client.

"I accept the Commission," I sighed.

"It has been heard," the elfess said with a flash of her fangs, and threw the veil over her face.

There was no thunder and no lightning. Simply, somewhere Sagot remembered what had been said, and now he would watch carefully to make sure the conditions of the contract were observed. Or if not him, then his servants would watch. The important thing was that the Commission would have to be carried out. If it cost me my life, I had to do it, because there is no running away from fate. And not to carry out the Commission was absolutely impossible. I couldn't go off to Hrad Spein, hide somewhere near the entrance, and then say: Sorry, I gave it a try but it didn't work out. They were right when they said Stalkon was clever; he had closed off all the escape routes and loopholes by offering a huge sum of money. And if I didn't manage to pull it off, I would have to return the pledge and a huge amount of interest on the total sum of the deal. I didn't have that kind of money, so that meant the terms of the Commission would be violated.

"Congrotolations, Harold!" Kli-Kli bowed elegantly in my direction. "Now you're the king's man."

"I have questions."

The words "Your Majesty" were set aside now until afterward. Now there was only a client, a master thief, and Sagot observing us from heaven, or wherever it is that he lives.

"Yes?"

"Am I going there alone?"

The thought flashed swiftly through my head that if I went alone, I'd certainly never get there. I'd either lose my way in the Forests of Zagraba or get clubbed to death somewhere along the way.

"No, but we have decided that this time the expedition should be small and it must travel in secret. Someone had eyes following the first expeditions. Servants of the Nameless One or someone else, we never found the informers."

"How small a detachment?" I asked with a frown.