Alexey Pehov - Shadow Prowler

“Two hundred. And don’t forget that I’m taking your other goods, too.”

“Two hundred and five,” the dwarf responded, clenching and unclenching his immense fists.

“The Darkness take you, honorable sir, I’ll have it!” There was no point in haggling any more with the tight-fisted shopkeeper.

“Shall we add up the bill?” The dwarf laughed as he took a massive abacus out from behind his back. “Or does the master require something else?”

“How about spells? What I usually take.”

“Glass vials? Wouldn’t you like some rune magic? I’ve just got in some very interesting scrolls from Isilia.”

“No, no rune magic.” After the disastrous scroll that had landed me with Vukhdjaaz, I’d never trust that kind of sorcery again till the end of time.

The dwarf raised his eyebrows. “Then what kind of spells?”

“Well, what kind do you have, Master Honchel?”

“That depends on the kind of glass you want the vials to be made out of.”

“Magic glass.”

The magic glass for spell vials was made by magicians, and it didn’t break unless its owner wanted it to. That is, I could jump up and down in iron boots on the little bottles of magic, and the glass would stand it until I wanted it to break and the spell to work.

Magic glass is an excellent way of protecting yourself against having a vial with a magical potion break unexpectedly. That’s why the price for spells in vials of magic glass is much higher than for ordinary vials.

“Let’s see what we’ve got here,” Honchel muttered, setting a pair of spectacles with rock-crystal lenses on his red nose. “Oh, and by the way, pardon my morbid curiosity, but how are you intending to pay?”

“In cash,” I hissed through my teeth, and set a heavy bag on the table. “There’s a hundred here.”

The dwarf didn’t even look at the money, and that, it must be said, is a genuinely rare event.

“Master Harold, I’ve known you for a long time, you’re a good client, I won’t deny it, but I won’t release goods on credit even to you. And the list of things you’ve ordered already comes to four hundred. Admit it, you don’t have the money, do you?”

“You’re right.”

I wasn’t about to argue with a dwarf. Only gnomes and dragons are capable of that.

“You’ll be paid, Master Honchel.”

“Permit me to inquire exactly who will pay me, Master Harold, if you fail to return from your dangerous trip?”

“He’ll pay,” I said, casually holding out the royal ring.

Honchel carefully took it with the fingers of his left hand, held it up to his eye, and examined it carefully.

“You’ll simply go to the palace and say you’ve come from me. And you can give the ring back at the same time.”

“Hmm. Hmm. Very well. I’ll give credit for the first time ever.” The dwarf carefully put the ring away in the inside pocket of his waistcoat. “So where were we, my dear fellow? Ah, yes! Spells. Let’s see what the poor shopkeeper has to offer the master.”

Curses! Over the last two months I’d got used to the silent, empty streets. But this night was special. In a couple of minutes it would strike midnight, and there were still a few rambunctious individuals wandering round the city, bawling out songs at the top of their raucous voices and reeking of cheap wine that you could smell from a league away.

The festivities in honor of the expulsion of the beasts of Darkness from Avendoom were continuing.

Fortunately, there were no revelers close to Stark’s old stables in the Port City. Not even drunks befuddled by the vapors of wine were drawn to that dark little street, where the poorest and shabbiest houses in the whole city stood.

I stood there in the dark, in front of the long-abandoned stables. The walls were skewed and twisted with age, and from the outside it looked as if the old building could collapse at any moment, crushing anyone unfortunate enough to be nearby.

This was a place of desolation and silence. In this place people tried to avoid being seen by creatures who would slit your throat for a few coppers or just for the sheer fun of it. Nobody had called them people for a long time, and they were far more dangerous than a pack of hungry gkhols.

I glanced straight ahead, to the point where the wall stood, a few dozen yards from the old poplar trees. A patch of blinding white in the nocturnal gloom. To look at, there seemed absolutely nothing magical about it. Walls like that surrounded houses in every district of the city. Only this one was covered with semi illiterate obscenities and indecent graffiti clumsily scratched into its surface. Obviously attempts by the inhabitants of Stark’s Stables to express their understanding of literature and art. But to be quite honest, they hadn’t been very successful.

The height of the obstacle that I had to overcome was two and a half yards. Not really so very high, if you thought about it. It was not at all difficult to climb over. However, there didn’t seem to be anybody around who wanted to take a stroll on the other side . I glanced again at the defenses erected by the Order to divide the living and the dead districts of Avendoom. The wall had turned yellow now-a dense wisp of mist had enveloped its white body in a sticky shroud.

The mist seemed to be alive, spectral, mysterious. It glittered in the light of the moon. First at one point, then another, it put out cautious feelers that trembled in the breeze. They gently probed at the air between the mist and the wall, trying to find a crack and overcome this low, but impassable barrier. Glittering and writhing, one of the yellow feelers almost reached right over the obstacle, but the moment it touched the white surface, a tiny spark sprang up between them. The feeler jerked back in fright and pulled away, writhing like a wounded worm.

The magic of the wall had proved itself strong. It hadn’t let the mist through, even though it was constantly trying to find a way into the only part of the city that it hadn’t conquered yet.

Apart from that solitary string of clouds on the left side, the sky was clear and the different-colored glass beads of the stars glittered and sparkled, set inconceivably high in the dome of the night. The Northern Crown lay across half of the sky like a bright diamond pendant. The Stone-the brightest star in our part of the world-pointed to the north, where the Nameless One was preparing for war in the Desolate Lands.

People who had been there said that up beyond the Lonely Giant it was impossible to look at the Northern Crown-the stars became so bright and large. Not at all like the stars here in the city, although even here the size of the Stone was astounding and its bright blue radiance was truly beautiful.

It was a warm night, you could almost call it hot, but I was trembling slightly and my teeth were beating out a quiet tattoo. I wasn’t shivering from cold, but from nervous tension. That happens to me before an important and dangerous job. It’s nothing to worry about; as soon as the moment comes to get down to work, the trembling disappears, scattered like fine dust, and its place is taken by intense concentration and precise caution-my much-praised professional qualities.

Hiding there in the darkness, I waited impatiently for midnight to come. According to the rumors, the period between midnight and one in the morning was the safest. So I had decided to set out on my adventure at the most favorable time, especially since I only had a few minutes to wait.

The warm weather had obliged me to abandon my cloak and put on a black jacket with a hood. I could feel in my bones that I’d be doing plenty of running that night, and a cloak hampers your movements too much. You can’t go jumping across the roofs when it keeps trying to wind itself round your legs.