Shadow Prowler (44 page)

“I beg your pardon, Milord Alistan, but you don’t understand,” I continued insistently. “We’re already attracting unwanted attention by traveling along one of the busiest high roads in the kingdom, and we’re attracting it because elves, a gnome, a dwarf, and ten men armed to the teeth make rather unusual company. Believe me, milord, the peasants and ordinary travelers will find plenty to chatter about. Such a strange party. And rumors spread like wildfire. Anyone who finds those rumors interesting could easily draw certain conclusions and arrange a welcome for us. And yet, as I understand it, you wish to enter the second largest city in the kingdom! I think that certain rather unpleasant gentlemen are already looking for us. Whoever let the enemy into the royal palace has had more than enough time to report that our expedition has set out. We should not be seen in Ranneng.”

“What the thief says makes sense,” Ell said with a gleam of his fangs. “We need to avoid places where there are too many people.”

“Then what do you suggest?” asked Miralissa. She spoke to the elf but was looking at me thoughtfully. “Should we leave the central highway and head farther to the southeast?”

Ell gave an almost imperceptible shrug, indicating that the decision was up to Alistan.

“Farther to the southeast?” Alistan didn’t much like the suggestion. “Turn off a good road, which is busy, I admit, and head across open fields and forests with fallen trees? We’ll lose so much time, we won’t even reach Zagraba in September!”

“The highway is heading due south at the moment,” Egrassa replied. “After Ranneng it turns to the west. And farther south there are no more cities, only barons’ castles and small towns or, rather, villages with garrisons. No humans wish to live near Zagraba. And so, in order not to lose time, we shall have to take a risk and keep following the same road. It’s a little more than a week to get to Ranneng. If we travel along the highway, that is. From the city we can turn to the southeast, toward the Iselina. There’s a ferry there that will take us across. And then it’s not very far to the Border Kingdom and the Forests of Zagraba.”

“We can’t avoid the cities. We’ll have to renew our supplies,” said Alistan, making it clear that the conversation was at an end.

Miralissa nodded at me. I nodded back and smiled but she just turned and walked off with the others.

From the very beginning of the journey Count Markauz set the pace for the horses, and they moved at a brisk trot. Let’s say that we weren’t exactly hurrying, but we weren’t creeping along like blind snails, either. And every few leagues the horses were given a rest.

The areas we passed through were quite populous, with messengers darting this way and that way along the highway, carts carrying goods to and from Avendoom. There were peasants, artisans, and members of guilds going about their business. Once we encountered a unit of soldiers riding toward us—Beaver Caps on their way to the Lonely Giant.

Little Bee proved to be an amazingly sturdy horse. I didn’t really notice her getting tired at all. Her stride was the same as it had been in the morning—smooth and light. In fact I was more tired than my horse was.

By the evening my entire body ached and I knew just how criminals in the Sultanate felt when they were set on stakes. Not a very pleasant sensation, I must say.

When it was already twilight, Alistan decided to halt at a neat, clean village by the name of Sunflowers, located not far from the highway. Tidy little white houses, clean roads, and friendly locals. It was clear that the people round here lived well. And the sight of so many sunflowers growing everywhere, with their heads already bowed under the weight of ripe seeds, was dazzling.

The local tavern had a huge inn, and rooms were found for every member of our expedition. It was called the Golden Chicken, and its name was well deserved, for two reasons. First, it earned its owner a very decent profit and, second, there were about fifty chickens wandering around in the yard. I climbed down off Little Bee with an effort and allowed one of the inn’s servants to take the horse to the stables. May I never hold gold pieces in my hand again if horse riding is not a very dubious pleasure for the unaccustomed. My backside was scraped raw all over. But that wasn’t all. The sun had also done its work, roasting me gently from all sides, and I felt old, battered, and sick.

“Hey, Harold!” Honeycomb separated off from the group of Wild Hearts and came toward me with a cunning smile on his face. He showed me his fist.

The other soldiers observed me with interest. I carefully inspected the . . . er . . . object that he had stuck almost right under my nose. There were several straws sticking out of it.

“What’s this?” I asked Honeycomb with cautious curiosity, in no hurry to touch the straws just yet.

“Lots!” The tall Wild Heart chuckled merrily. “The lads and I consulted and we decided you should join in, too.”

“Join in what? And, by the way, why are the elves and our glorious count already in the inn, while we’re standing out here drawing lots?”

“The elves and Alistan are high society,” Uncle answered for Honeycomb. “But our little draw’s very simple. Whoever draws the short straw shares a room with Lamplighter.”

“Until the end of the journey,” Arnkh added quickly.

Mumr followed all these preparations with poorly concealed hostility.

I didn’t really care who else I had in my room and so I took the nearest straw out of Honeycomb’s fist with the most casual air I could muster. It was short.

There were loud sighs of relief on all sides. Someone gave me an encouraging pat on the back; someone else winked at me merrily. I had no idea why no one wanted to spend the night in the same room as Lamplighter, and I didn’t get a chance to ask—the tables in the tavern were already set for supper and the hospitable host was filling the glasses with his finest wine. There weren’t many guests at the inn, and most of the people in the hall were from the village.

And the only food they served was chicken. In all its forms. Roasted chickens, chickens baked with apples, steamed chickens, chicken wings with pepper. The sheer abundance of chicken was enough to make you jump up and start crowing like a rooster. So if you take into account the fact that I don’t like chicken very much, it should be easy enough to understand why I wasn’t exactly in the best of moods. By contrast, the Wild Hearts were in fine fettle, as if they hadn’t spent the entire day in the saddle, so I said I was tired, went off to my room, and lay down on one of the beds, regretting yet again that I had allowed myself to be drawn into such an insane venture.

In the middle of the night I found out just what a dirty trick cruel fate had played on me. Lamplighter showed up very late, when I was already asleep, and I was so exhausted after a day in the saddle that I didn’t even hear him arrive.

But I did hear Mumr very clearly when he started snoring with enthusiastic gusto. Never mind good old Gozmo, with his gentle nocturnal trilling and tweeting—by comparison with this warrior’s snoring, Gozmo’s was like the buzzing of a little mosquito compared with the roar of a hungry obur.

Naturally, I woke up and, of course, I tried to drown out the terrible sounds. I tried whistling. I tried singing a song. I even threw a boot at him.

It was hopeless. He had absolutely no intention of waking up, or even turning over onto his other side.

After an hour of torment, when I was beginning to get used to the
snoring and was just about ready to sink back into sleep, Lamplighter changed the order of the sounds he was making and everything started all over again. Eventually I stuck my head under the pillow and at long last managed to get to sleep, after swearing to myself that next time I would find a more comfortable spot to take my rest.

Mumr woke me up in the morning. I gave him a surly glance, quite certain that no one had come between him and his dreams.

Amazing enough, I felt better after the night. No doubt thanks to Ell, who had noticed the state I was in the evening before and splashed something out of his own flask into my glass of wine. Whatever it was, it had certainly helped.

“We’re up a bit late this morning,” I said to Mumr. “Aren’t we in a hurry?”

“Lady Miralissa is waiting for a messenger,” Lamplighter replied, groping around under his bed. He pulled out the bidenhander, set it across his shoulder, and walked toward the door of the room.

“Let’s go and get breakfast, Harold.”

“I’m coming.”

I reached out one hand for my crossbow and knife. Hmm . . . Strange . . . Very strange . . . The knife was there all right, but my little junior with the double sting had completely disappeared. And at that very moment I heard the twang of a crossbow shot outside in the yard, followed by the frightened clucking of chickens. I glanced out of the window and swore, then dashed out of the room and started down the stairs to the ground floor.

Some of the Wild Hearts were already having breakfast in the large hall of the tavern. They said good morning and asked politely how I had slept. I replied politely that I had slept well, but I didn’t really fool either myself or them.

“Harold, where are you going? It’ll all get cold!” Hallas exclaimed in surprise, clutching a lump of fatty bacon in one hand and piece of smoked sausage in the other. The gnome seemed to be having some difficulty in deciding what to start his meal with.

“I’ll just be a moment,” I told him, and dashed outside.

Arnkh, Tomcat, and Loudmouth were absorbed in watching an
original competition between Eel and a certain little individual whom I knew only too well. And to the innkeeper’s considerable dismay, this competition consisted of trying to shoot as many as possible of the chickens running around the yard in the shortest possible time. There were already about fifteen motionless bundles of feathers, little chicken corpses, lying here and there on the sand.

Eel was shooting with a sklot taken from Markauz. Kli-Kli—yes, it was him all right, I would have known that face with my eyes closed now—was felling the chickens with my crossbow.

“Having fun?” I asked the goblin.

“Good morning, Harold,” Kli-Kli replied, and brought down another unfortunate bird with a well-aimed shot. “Ten-six. I win!”

That was addressed to Eel, who nodded in agreement without even trying to argue.

“Thanks for letting me use your crossbow,” said the jester, handing the weapon back to me.

“I don’t recall giving you permission.”

“Oh, don’t be so finicky,” the goblin said with a frown. “I galloped all night and scraped my backside raw before I caught up with you! I have to relax a bit somehow.”

“And why, if I may ask, have you come?”

“Am I imagining it, or did I hear a note of irritation in your voice?” the jester asked, looking me straight in the eye. “I came to pass on a certain item to Miralissa, something the king didn’t have yet when you left.”

“So it’s due to your good services that we’re in no hurry to go anywhere?” the taciturn Garrakan asked gruffly.

“And basically,” said the goblin, brushing aside all possible objections, “I’m going to join you for the rest of the journey.”

“As our jester? Well, how about that!” snorted Loudmouth.

He and Tomcat had come across to us while Arnkh was pulling the bolts out of the birds’ little corpses and sorting things out with the aggrieved owner of the Golden Chicken.

“Do you see any cap?” Kli-Kli asked, jabbing a finger at his own head.

The goblin was not wearing a jester’s cap with little bells, or a leotard. He was dressed in ordinary traveling clothes with a cloak on his shoulders.

“I’m going with you as a guide, not a jester. The place we’re going to is my homeland. And I’m just as much at home there as the elves are. I also happen to be the king’s authorized representative.”

“If I were in the king’s place, I wouldn’t authorize you to guard my chamber pot!” said Loudmouth.

“Why, you’ve never had a chamber pot in your life,” Tomcat said, laughing at Loudmouth.

“Whether I have or I haven’t makes no difference!” Loudmouth retorted to his colleague with the mustache, and then scratched his long nose. “I’m sorry, goblin, but guarding one more civilian in these difficult conditions is just too much. Especially since we know the kind of dirty tricks you like to play on us.”

“My name’s Kli-Kli, not goblin, Mr. Griper-and-Grouser,” the jester snapped. “And I don’t need protection from anyone. I’m quite capable of looking after myself.”

And with that he flung aside the flaps of his cloak to allow us to see a belt with four heavy throwing knives hanging on it—two on the right and two on the left.

Nothing important happened for the next few days. We carried on heading south, stopping for the night in the fields round about.

The nights were warm and nobody suffered at all from the vagaries of the weather. If it had been the usual kind, that is, the same as it had always been in July for the last ten thousand years, we would all have felt a bit chilly at night. But as it was, you could quite happily sleep on the grass, or lie there looking up at the starry sky. If not for the mosquitoes, who had gone absolutely crazy in this unexpected warmth, life would have been splendid.

The reason we had spent the night in the fields was simple. For two days now the highway had avoided all the villages as it looped elegantly round to the southeast. We would only reach the next village on the road in the evening of the next day. Amazingly enough, out in the open air Mumr didn’t snore. Marmot told me that Lamplighter only performed his raucous concerts when he had a roof over his head. So by now I had completely caught up on my sleep.