Shadow Prowler (15 page)

I cast a casual glance over the eleven male and female statues, the gods and goddesses of Siala standing there before me. And then I looked at the empty pedestal where the twelfth statue ought to have stood, the statue of Sagot.

Somehow it had happened that in all the world there was only one image of the god of thieves. Evidently he didn’t really welcome close interest in his own person.

This statue of Sagot was in the Forbidden Territory of the city. When the fiasco with the Rainbow Horn happened, it had wound up on the other side of the wall. And no one had been able to re-create the image of the god of thieves. Even the priests didn’t know what Sagot was supposed to look like, and so they had decided not to take any risk of committing sacrilege, and for the time being the pedestal on which the god ought to stand had been left empty.

The patron of thieves and swindlers clearly had no objections to this. In any case, the priests had not seen any signs, except for a few after the fifth jug of wine, but they were so vague and mysterious that no one had taken them seriously. And so now empty marble pedestals stood in all of Sagot’s shrines.

Right now, though, there was a vagabond in dirty boots sitting cross-legged on the pedestal in front of me and holding out a coarse clay bowl. Strangely enough, the priests didn’t seem to notice the blasphemy of it. Overcome by curiosity, I set off along the row of the other gods toward the beggar in the farthest section of the small green yard. As I walked along I took off my cloak and wrapped my crossbow in it.

“You have a fine seat there,” I said in a friendly manner as I halted in front of the stranger.

He cast a rapid glance at me from under the dark hood concealing his face and shook his cup for alms.

“Are you quite comfortable? Haven’t your legs turned numb?” I asked, pretending not to notice his gesture.

“I’m a lot more comfortable than you are just at the moment, Shadow Harold,” a mocking voice said.

“Do I know you?” I was beginning to feel annoyed that every last rat in Avendoom seemed to know who I was.

“Oh no.” The tramp shrugged and rattled his cup again. “But I’ve heard about you.”

“Nothing but the very best, I hope.” I had already completely lost interest in the beggar, and was about to set off along a barely visible path, overgrown with tall grass, into the depths of the cathedral grounds, when the beggar’s voice stopped me:

“Toss in a coin, Harold, and you’ll get a free piece of advice.”

“That’s strange,” I said, turning back toward the seated man. “If the advice is free, why should I give you a coin?”

“Come on, Harold, I have to eat and sleep somewhere, don’t I?”

The stranger had intrigued me. I rummaged in my pockets, fished out a piece of small change, and laughed as I flung it into the bowl he was holding out toward me. The copper disk clattered forlornly against the bottom. The beggar raised the bowl to his nose to see what I had given him and heaved a sigh.

“Is that just the way you are, or are all thieves that mean?”

“You ought to thank me for spending time here and at least giving you something!” I exclaimed indignantly.

“Thank you. So shall I give you that advice, then?”

“If you would be so kind.”

“Then pay in gold, I don’t work for coppers.”

I felt like taking him by the scruff of the neck and giving him a good shaking. This weasel could live well for an entire month on a gold piece. But I was already snared in the net that the cunning rogue had spread, and I was even willing to pay a gold piece to hear whatever raving nonsense he had to tell me.

“All right, here you are.” I twirled the yellow coin between my fingers. “But first I’d like to see your face.”

“Nothing could be simpler,” said the beggar, and he threw back his hood.

An entirely unremarkable set of features. Coarse, weatherbeaten, no longer young, covered with gray stubble. A pointed nose, bright eyes. I didn’t know him.

“Here’s your payment.” I tossed the weighty little disk into the cup, and the tramp smiled triumphantly. “But bear in mind that if the advice is bad, I’ll shake the money back out of you! Well?”

“This is the advice,” said the beggar, pulling his hood back up again.
“Don’t stand on Selena. Walk on your own feet, your own feet, Harold, and then you might live to a ripe old age.”

“Selena? What’s Selena? And why shouldn’t I stand on it?” I asked. “What kind of riddles are these?”

But the beggar had shut up as tight as a clam.

“Listen, I’m not joking. Either give me my money back, or tell me where you know me from and what this stupid riddle means.”

“Eh-e-eb-b-m-a-a-a,” the beggar moaned, making himself out to be a deaf-mute idiot.

But it didn’t escape my attention that, as if by magic, the coin had disappeared from the tramp’s hands into some secret place under his clothes.

“Stop playing the fool! Give me my money back!” I cried in fury, and took a step toward the swindler.

“Would you be mocking a holy fool?” a coarse, rasping voice asked behind my back.

“May darkness reduce me to dust if he’s a holy fool! He’s a real swindler!” I just couldn’t believe that I had been duped.

“Move on, my dear fellow, move on. People come here to commune with the gods, and you’re creating a commotion,” said the sergeant of the guard, standing slightly ahead of his morose subordinates. He gave me a menacing smile. “Otherwise we shall have to escort you out of this holy place.”

“Moooooo,” the “deaf-mute” lowed in support of the guard, and began nodding his head wildly.

There was nothing left to do but shrug and withdraw, seething with righteous fury and indignation. I was surrounded on all sides by thieves and swindlers.

I had been duped with deft skill, like some oafish peasant, caught out by one of the standard tricks practiced by swindlers ever since the dawn of time. Well, Sagot be with him! It won’t bankrupt me.

The track wound between green gardens and flower beds. A couple of times I ran into priests going about their business, but they took no notice of me, as if visitors were always walking about in the inner territory of the cathedral.

The path wound to the left and rounded a bed of pale blue flowers reaching all their petals up toward the warm sunshine, then approached
a massive building made of huge blocks of gray stone. And there was the dark archway that led to the dwelling of my only friend in this world.

The shadows, afraid of the sunlight, had squeezed themselves tight up against the ancient gray walls, and after the heat of the summer day the coolness that pervaded the narrow tunnel seemed like a blessing from the gods.

My footsteps echoed off the low vaults. I had almost walked right through when my guts suddenly twitched in agony as a familiar grip took hold of me by the sides of my chest and lifted me up off the ground.

The hands were followed out of the wall by shoulders and a head. The rest of the body remained out of view.

“Vukhdjaaz is clever,” said the demon.

“Hi there,” I said with a joyful smile, greeting him like my own dear mom, and not a demon of the Darkness.

“Vukhdjaaz is clever.” The vile beast decided to put me back down on the ground anyway, and then surveyed me suspiciously. “You have the Horse?”

“I was just working on that.”

“Quicker!” the demon hissed, and his bright scarlet eyes glinted menacingly in the semidarkness. “I can’t hold out for long.”

“I need just a little more time.”

“Bring the Horse in three days, or I’ll suck the marrow out of your bones!”

“But how will I find you?”

“Call me by name when you have the Horse, and I will appear.”

Vukhdjaaz shot me another piercing glance and dissolved into the wall.

I leaned back against the rough surface of the stone, catching my breath. Oo-ooph! That sort of thing could give you a heart attack. I never expected the cursed monster to appear again so soon, and during the day, too. Something had to be done about Vukhdjaaz.

I already had a rough idea of where to start looking for the Horse. Whoever it was that set the Doralissians on me had it. No doubt about that. Now I needed to find these persons unknown and filch the Stone before nightfall the day after tomorrow, or I’d have my marrow sucked out. . . .

I walked up a massive stairway with chipped and battered steps, and then along the corridor leading to the quarters of the priests of Sagot. Two priests standing beside a marble tub from which protruded a feeble scruffy bunch of leaves that was supposed to be a palm tree stopped discussing the affairs of the god of thieves and began staring at me. I nodded and formed my fingers into the sign of our guild. They relaxed, lowered their heads to greet me in reply, and went back to their philosophical dispute. I was no longer an outsider to them.

It’s no secret that only former thieves and swindlers become priests of Sagot—this is a centuries-old tradition that no one has any intention of abandoning.

When the corridor came to an end, I walked up another stairway to the second floor, where the priests had their quarters. The door I was interested in was the second on the right. It was a rather ordinary-looking door, with its old, dark wooden surface scarred with the deep furrows left by the swords of unfriendly visitors.

But the former thieves were well able to stand up for themselves, and they always carried a knife concealed under their placid gray robes. And so, my friend had told me, those who had invaded the calm sanctuary of this shrine had been buried in the garden, and their swords hung in the prayer hall of the cathedral to discourage anyone else from entering this peaceful and godly place with naked weapons. Sagot might be the least of the gods, less menacing and mighty than his brothers and sisters, but he and his votaries would always defend themselves.

I knocked on the door. On entering without waiting to be invited, I found myself in a large, well-lit room—a hall, in fact. The walls were painted in cheerful colors, a contrast to the dreary, gray corridors that was a delight to the eye. I glanced round this rather wealthy interior, assessing the value of the contents (well, I can’t help it, it’s a habit). Expensive paintings by well-known masters of the past, illustrating scenes from divine mythology; a yellow Sultanate carpet on the floor; wonderful furniture; a miniature gold pedestal of Sagot. My friend certainly held a high position in the hierarchy of servants of the god of thieves.

“Harold! My boy!” A huge, fat man in the grayish-white cassock of a priest got up from the table and came toward me, throwing his arms wide. “What brings you here? It must be a hundred years since you last came to see this old man!”

“Hello, For. Glad to see you alive, well, and fat!” I laughed as I embraced the old priest.

“Can’t be helped, it’s the job,” he laughed in reply.

“Hey! Hey! Hey! I saw that, you old rogue! Come on, give back my purse!” I exclaimed. “So you haven’t lost your touch, you old thief?”

“How can we old men possibly compare with you youngsters?” For replied jokingly, and tossed me the purse he had just removed from my belt. “Come to the table, I was just about to dine.”

“You’re always dining, whatever time of day I arrive. Serving Sagot has made you three times the size you used to be.”

“Sagot’s will must be done,” For said with a doleful shrug. “You sit here, I’ll bring your favorite wine.”

He laughed, winked at me, and went through into the next room, puffing and panting. I sat on a massive chair, solid and strong enough to support For, and put my cloak with the crossbow wrapped in it on the table.

Old For—“Sticky Hands For.” One of the most famous master thieves of former times, who in years gone by had carried out such daring robberies on the most influential houses that his feats of thievery were still talked about in our professional guild to this very day.

For was the man who had first noticed that skinny, constantly hungry youth, Harold the Flea, taken him under his wing, and started to teach him the art of the Supreme Mastery instead of petty pickpocketing.

For ten years he struggled and strained with me, until finally Shadow Harold emerged, with a skill equal to his teacher’s. But it was a long time now since For had retired and entered the service of Sagot.

The good priest, Brother For, “Protector of the Hands.”

That title still set me laughing; I simply couldn’t believe that the most successful and talented thief of all had actually retired. Of all the living creatures in this insane and dangerous world, the only one I trusted was my teacher and friend.

“Here I am.” For’s red face beamed a triumphant smile. He was holding a pair of dust-covered bottles in each hand.

“Amber Tears!” I exclaimed.

“Precisely! Old stock, the finest wine of the bright elves from beyond the Mountains of the Dwarves. You’d better appreciate it.”

“I already am.”

“I was scarcely hoping to see you for the next few years, kid. There are all sorts of rumors creeping round the city.”

“Rumors!” I snorted. “What sort of rumors?”

“Well, they say you’re at daggers drawn with Markun and sooner or later things will end badly. It’s not yet clear exactly for which one of you, but bets are being placed.”