Shadow Chaser (12 page)

The men who attacked us had fallen into an ambush themselves? So who had finished them off—their own side? Or had a third party joined in? But if so, who?

“I hope nothing bad has happened to Honeycomb and he has better luck than our Ell,” Uncle muttered querulously.

“Mumr, Marmot,” Milord Rat said in a quiet voice, “relieve Hallas and Deler.”

Lamplighter put down his reed pipe and went to carry out Alistan’s order.

The gnome and the dwarf burst into the inn, occupied the bar, and set about annihilating the strategic supplies of beer while they recalled their friend Loudmouth, may he dwell in the light, with a few kind words.

Everyone else went back to their own pastimes, casting occasional worried glances at the door.

*   *   *

I went back to studying my papers. But the cursed labyrinths of the Palaces of Bone absolutely refused to stay fixed in my memory, and I barely managed to make myself remember the route through the first level to the steps that led to the second. Eventually, when it was already after midnight and our patience was all but exhausted, Honeycomb showed up. Without saying a word he took a mug full of dark heavy beer out of Deler’s hand and drained it in a single swallow.

“I found them,” the young giant laughed, wiping his mustache with the back of his hand. “They’re in a house in the southern district of Ranneng.”

“The southern district?” Miralissa said with a frown. “There’s nothing there but the mansions of the higher nobility!”

“That’s right … Hallas, another beer.”

Honeycomb handed his mug to the gnome, who filled it without a murmur.

“Did you find out anything about Loudmouth?”

“Not a thing. He disappeared into thin air,” said Honeycomb, taking another swig of his beer.

“So what happened? Ell wasn’t able to find you.”

“No?” said Honeycomb, glancing at the elf.

“I found nothing but bodies.…”

“Ah yes! When I left the inn, I was about ten minutes behind our killers. And there were guards dashing around all over the Upper City, so I had to keep my head down. Anyway, I was a bit late reaching the scene of the fight. When I got there, there was nothing but dead bodies and a dozen lads with bows walking out of the dark alley. I had to make the best of it, so I followed them.”

“Did they say anything?”

“No…,” Honeycomb said after thinking for a moment. “But later, when the killers met another man, he said that now the Master might be pleased with them.”

“The Master?” Miralissa asked in alarm, casting a warning glance in my direction.

“That’s what they said.” Honeycomb shrugged and took a swig from his mug. “I had to follow them for quite a long time, and then hang about for even longer in a little hidey-hole while they waited for the man. They gave him the item that was stolen from you, Tresh Miralissa, took their money, sang the praises of the Master, and went on their way.”

“And what about the man?”

“He went off in the opposite direction, so I had to choose who to follow. I decided the stolen item was more important and followed the man. A cunning pest, I tell you; I almost lost him.”

“Did he notice you?” Miralissa asked anxiously.

“Oh no … He couldn’t have.”

“Why didn’t you finish him off, if he had the Key?” the gnome asked in a disappointed voice.

“There were four others with him. Bodyguards. And he looked like a dangerous enough specimen himself. I even thought he might be a shaman—his skin was so pale.”

“Did you say pale?” I exclaimed.

“White. As white as chalk.”

Could this be my old acquaintance Rolio? If so, then it really was him I’d seen at the Large Market. The Nameless One’s followers had done the job for Paleface, and the Master’s servants had simply lain in waiting for their prey in the dark alley, shot the thieves with their bows, and taken the Key. Tonight the hired killer had done what the Master’s shaman had failed to do fifteen hundred years earlier in the Mountains of the Dwarves, and now the Master would at long last hold in his hands the artifact he craved so badly.

“Carry on, Honeycomb,” Egrassa said.

“Carry on with what?” Honeycomb asked with a shrug. “I’m not Tomcat, may his soul dwell in the light, I’m about as good a tracker as Hallas is a jeweler, but I managed to stick with the lad to the end. He’s in a huge mansion in the southern district of the city. And that’s the whole story.”

“What kind of house is it? Where exactly is it located?”

“The darkness only knows where it’s located. I’ve never been in this city before. I only just managed to find my way back here. But I can recognize it. It’s not a house, it’s a palace, and it has fancy gates, with some kind of birds on them.”

“That’s great! Now we’ll break those birds’ little wings!” said Hallas. He stuffed a piece of bread in his mouth and reached for his battle-mattock.

“Where do you think you’re going in such a great hurry?” Uncle asked, watching the gnome curiously.

“What do you mean? We have to get that Key back from them.”

“With one incomplete platoon? Without knowing who we’re going up against? Without knowing how many guards there are? Get a grip, Hallas! That smack you got in the teeth must have been too hard,” the dwarf quipped.

“Sit down, Hallas,” Alistan said quietly, and the gnome, who had been on the point of starting a brawl with Deler, went back to his seat, shamefaced. “We need to find out who we’re dealing with before we get into a fight.”

“Who we’re dealing with? I think I can probably answer that question for you, Milord Alistan,” I blurted out without thinking, and then bit my tongue, but it was already too late.

“Have you become a visionary, thief?” Count Markauz asked me.

“Oh no, Your Grace. It’s all much simpler than that. The man who took the Key from the Nameless One’s men who attacked us is my old friend Paleface. And Paleface, as you recall, serves the Master. I think we can assume that whoever lives in that house is another one of the Master’s errand boys, like Rolio.”

“Well now, that is logical,” Miralissa agreed, and snapped her fingers in annoyance. “So this Master has thwarted us yet again.…”

Alistan chuckled scornfully, making it very clear that he found my reasoning unconvincing.

“I beg your pardon, Lady Miralissa,” Eel drawled, speaking for the first time. “Just recently the lads and I heard you talk about this mysterious Master. Could you tell us a little more about him? We feel like blind kittens—we don’t even know which direction danger might strike from.”

“I think Harold can tell you more than I can.”

The Wild Hearts all turned to look at me.

“Mumr, pour me some beer,” I said to Lamplighter. “This is going to be a long story.”

“Well, I’ve already heard it, so I’ll be off to bed,” Kli-Kli said with a yawn.

“I’ll hit the hay, too,” said the gnome. “Just tell me tomorrow, that is, today, where this Master’s head is, and I’ll give it a tap with my mattock, so he won’t bother us anymore.”

“You’re a great hero,” Deler snorted.

“Sure, not like certain dwarves who wear stupid hats on their empty heads,” said the gnome, and walked out before Deler could come up with a worthy reply.

I had a potbellied mug of beer in front of me, and I began my story.…

“Mmm, yes…,” Deler grunted when he had heard me out. “This is an interesting business we’ve got involved in, right, Uncle?”

“Don’t whine,” the sergeant told the dwarf. “You knew what you were getting into when you left the Lonely Giant with us.”

“I did,” Deler agreed with a nod. “We’ve seen worse in our time. Survived ogres in snows of the Desolate Lands, went hungry for weeks at a time, walked all the way to the emerald green Needles of Ice. We won’t retreat now just because of some creep.”

“No, we won’t, dwarf,” Alistan declared quietly. “We have nowhere left to retreat to. There’s a good chance that the Key will leave the mansion before the night’s over. Are there any volunteers?”

“I’ll catch up on my sleep in the morning,” said Marmot, taking Invincible off his shoulder and handing him to me. “Take care of him. I’m with you, Honeycomb.”

“Wait, I’ll take a stroll with you,” said Egrassa, getting up from the table. He took his s’kash and walked out of the tavern with the two Wild Hearts.

“Mmm,” Deler drawled thoughtfully. “Am I imagining things, or did Tresh Egrassa really take a sword with him?”

“The law of Ranneng does not apply to elves, Deler,” Miralissa said with a smile. “We can carry weapons wherever we wish.”

The dwarf grunted in disappointment and muttered to himself, but not loudly enough for Miralissa to hear: “If you’ve got long pointy teeth you can carry a ballista around if you like, but they won’t let an honest dwarf take his own ax into town.”

I picked up the dozing ling and went off to bed.

4

THE TROUBLE CONTINUES …

The next morning I was woken by Invincible’s shrill, furious squealing. At first I was too sleepy to understand what was going on, but as usual divine enlightenment struck me out of the blue. The answer was very simple—I could hear Invincible squealing because a certain little green stinker had decided to annoy the formidable little mouse.

“Ai! He bit me! I swear by the great insane shaman Tre-Tre, the little rat bit me!” the goblin roared.

“You only got what you deserve. And when Marmot finds out you’ve been teasing his little friend he’ll tear your head off.”

“You’re a fool, Harold,” said Kli-Kli, licking his terrible wound.

“Oh, no. I beg your pardon,” I said, getting up off the bed. “You’re the fool here, not me.”

“True, I am a fool,” Kli-Kli agreed amiably. “But then, I’m wise, too. And you’re just a fool.”

“And how did you get to be so wise?” asked Lamplighter, who was listening to our conversation.

“What do you mean?” I snorted as I put on my shirt. “He was dropped on his head as a child, and ever since then he thinks he’s a wise fool.”

“Maybe I am only a wise fool, but you, Harold, are a genuine fool. And you know why? Because a wise man knows he’s a fool, and that makes him a wise fool. But people like you, who think they’re the cleverest and wisest of all, don’t even realize what absolute fools they really are.”

“What wonderful reasoning,” I remarked, feeling slightly confused. “Did you ever think of becoming a professor of philosophy at the university?”

“Oh, what big words we know,” said the little goblin, who found this exchange very amusing. “Phi-lo-so-phy! It must have taken ten years for a fool like you to learn that word. And as for reasoning, I can prove to you that you’re a fool in no time at all. Do you want me to?”

“No.”

“That’s because you’re a fool,” the goblin snapped back. “Are you afraid?”

“I just don’t want to hear any proofs from the king’s fool. You’re an idle chatterbox, Kli-Kli.”

“I’m an idle chatterbox? No, I’ll prove to you that you’re a fool who doesn’t listen to wise men,” said the goblin, getting furious. “Look here. Proof number one. Who would ever take on a Commission to get the Rainbow Horn?”

“A fool!” I said, forced to admit that the green midget was right.

“Oh, you grow wiser by the hour,” the jester said with heartfelt sincerity as he bound up his bitten finger with a handkerchief.

The handkerchief wasn’t exactly fresh and clean, and it had very vulgar little blue flowers embroidered along its edges.

“To continue,” the green bedbug said, “proof number two! When you refused to accept the authenticity of the goblin prophecies about a Dancer in the Shadows, that is, about you, you acted like the greatest fool of all time, didn’t you?”

“I acted like an intelligent man. Why would I want to be in any of your ludicrous prophecies? I became a fool when I allowed you to call me the Dancer in the Shadows.”

“Oh!” he sighed disappointedly. “Now you’ve started turning stupid again. But never mind, you may be a fool, but you accepted the name, and now there’s no way you can get out of it. The prophecy will be fulfilled.”

Kli-Kli simply adored the
Bruk-Gruk
—the goblin
Book of Prophecies
that’s supposed to predict every important event that will ever take place in Siala. And supposedly there’s a special cycle of predictions called “Dancer in the Shadows.” The goblin insists that these fairy tales are about me, but I don’t want to have anything to do with any crazy goblin shamans. The last thing I need for a happy life is to find that I’m the hero of some silly book.

“And how did he accept the name, Kli-Kli?” Mumr asked.

“How, Lamplighter-Mamplighter? Very simply. Because he’s a fool.”

Something must have got stuck in the goblin’s brains. He’s obviously going to repeat that word all day long now, like a green parrot. Lamplighter wasn’t satisfied with this answer from Stalkon’s personal jester, so Kli-Kli kept up his harangue: “I’ll tell you. The prophecy about the Dancer in the Shadows says that this dancer, who will definitely be a thief, will save the entire world from a nasty villain. But before he does that, a whole heap of events and signs have to happen. There are all sorts of ways you can recognize the Dancer, that is, our very own much beloved, absolute fool Harold, also known as the Shadow. First the Dancer has to bind demons using the Horse of Shadows, then he has to kill a purple bird, and then take up the name.”