Alexey Pehov - Shadow Prowler

I dragged the table back to its former position and sat down to study the documents thoroughly, since I still had four hours left. I glanced quickly through the rhymed riddle and then turned to the map of Hrad Spein.

But the progress I made in all that time was hardly worth a bent penny. Corridors, halls, entryways, rooms, hidey-holes, tunnels, caves, and underground palaces. And it was all woven into some kind of tight tangle of snakes suffering agonizing deaths from their own venom. A labyrinth thousands of years old, the foundations of which were laid by someone unknown at a time when the orcs, the first race of the new age, had not yet appeared in Siala.

When it was almost evening and my eyes were tired and good old For still hadn’t put in an appearance, I tore myself away from the maps and put the documents in my bag. I felt too lazy to fiddle with the secret fresco again, and I didn’t want to waste any more of the magical liquid either, so I thought my old bag would be a safe enough hiding place.

It was time to be off.

In principle, I didn’t really have to go anywhere. But I was tormented by a mixture of doubt and curiosity-would my plan work? And would Artsivus believe what I had asked Roderick to tell him? Because, if the archmagician ignored what I had said, the whole plan would all go to the Darkness, together with the demon who managed to snatch the Horse with his clawed fingers.

Evening was drawing on.

That time of day had arrived when the world is colored in every shade of gray. The sun had not yet sunk behind the horizon, but it was ready to retire, and the moon looked like a snow owl. For just one hour the gigantic, drowsy bird known as twilight had spread its wings over the city.

A suspicious silence had spread along the Street of the Sleepy Dog. This meant that some dark business was in the offing and somebody’s blood might be spilled. Therefore the inhabitants of the houses in the area had gone scurrying off on highly important, but imaginary business, with an air of serious haste, and it was hardly surprising that as the lazy twilight’s gentle hands felt their way along the stone walls of the houses, they found almost no one in the street.

Ah, but that was just it-almost no one.

The street was not actually empty. There were a few lads about with an appearance that was quite easily recognized-the kind of appearance possessed by certain individuals who are at odds with the law and prepared to slip their hands into the pocket of Baron Lanten himself.

Markun had taken the trouble of posting lookouts in order to spot any unusual developments in the form of Frago Lanten and his faithful lads, or even Harold, if it came to that. Well, well.

Thank Sagot, the lads didn’t notice me, and I turned onto the next side street, intending to get into Gozmo’s inn through the service entrance. Or exit-it all depends on which way you look at it. But there was a stroke of ill luck in store here, too. As if to spite me, there were a large number of angry-looking Doralissians hanging about nearby, keeping an eye out for suspected enemies, and I got out of there in a hurry. The goats were also pretending to be peaceful lambs and acting as if this was their home territory. The local inhabitants were not objecting.

I’d have to do it the old-fashioned way, over the roof. Using the cobweb, I was soon standing on the roof next to the roof of Gozmo’s inn, and with a hop and a skip I was on the other building. I dived into a little attic window… and almost ended up in a lovingly positioned mantrap.

These hunters, may the dark elves roast me alive! You could catch an adult obur in a trap like that! Nothing could possibly be more dangerous than the hospitality of my best friend Gozmo!

As I expected, the attic was dusty and dirty, and so it cost me quite an effort to find the hatch in the floor; I had to scrape away a heap of old rags, and the dust almost made me sneeze. The trapdoor was locked from the other side, and I cursed the lock, and Gozmo, and Markun’s lads, and the stupid Doralissians a dozen times before I finally managed to get it open.

There were no steps, so I simply jumped down onto the floor of the second story, almost colliding with Gozmo as he strolled along the corridor. The innkeeper squealed in surprise and jumped back against the wall.

“Harold! You’ll be the death of me!” he exclaimed and spat when he recognized me. “Couldn’t you choose a less eccentric way of visiting?”

“Did you do as I said?” I asked, ignoring his question.

Somehow I didn’t enjoy visiting Gozmo as much as I used to.

“Yes, may you be cursed three times over! Markun and his lads have been here for more than an hour already.”

“My sympathies.” The head of the Guild of Thieves was as impatient as ever. He had decided to turn up well in advance of the set time. “What sort of mood is he in? Bad, as usual?”

“Bad?” Gozmo wrung his hands despairingly. “I’m done for! The moment he learns that there isn’t going to be any deal, those lads of his will have our guts!”

“Stop whining,” I said good-naturedly. “You’ve got nowhere to fall back to now.”

What’s true is true. Even if Gozmo betrayed me, he was a dead man. The fat slug who through some mistake of the gods had become the leader of the Avendoom Guild of Thieves never forgave anyone who tricked him. The hospitable water below the piers was waiting for Gozmo.

“Curses on that night when I listened to you,” Gozmo muttered.

He had probably been visited by thoughts about the water under the piers as well.

“Don’t panic. It’s bad for the job. Better think about something pleasant. Have you already received your share of the gold?”

“No,” Gozmo said with a frown. “That cursed fat man promised to pay after he closes the deal.”

“You’ll get a deal. At exactly midnight. Meanwhile, pour the lads some beer, so they don’t get too bored. Or they might get upset and start trashing the place.”

“Who’s going to pay for it?” There was no more warmth in the old thief’s eyes than in an icicle on the S’u-dar Pass.

“You are, of course, or did you think I’d pay a brass farthing to help fill Markun’s belly?”

Gozmo didn’t think so, and he spat on the floor again.

“Go and keep them busy, give them some beer. I’m going into the office.”

“The Darkness take you,” Gozmo muttered, and set off toward the staircase leading down to the first floor.

I was under no illusion about Gozmo’s feelings for me, but it really wasn’t in his interest to sell me out. It was better for him to count on Harold coming up with something to make everything turn out all right.

The office was a little room directly above the main hall of the inn. Something like a closet with a magical floor that was transparent from one side, so that you could see what was going on underneath your feet.

As far as I’m aware, Gozmo acquired the inn without the magical floor. But one day a magician who had been expelled from the Order locked himself in the closet with a young maiden, and this was the result. I won’t even try to imagine what they got up to in there, but the outcome was a very convenient observation point. I found out about it completely by accident. That day good old Gozmo had taken a drop too much, and his tongue was flapping faster than the sails of a windmill. The next day the innkeeper denied everything, of course, but I cornered him, and he had to admit I was right. So today I was going to watch the show with every comfort and, most important, in absolute safety.

Just as I had anticipated, no customers were expected that day. No man in his right mind-or even out of it-would go barging straight into a hornet’s nest, especially when the chief hornet was Markun himself. Better to spend the day at home and go without drink. Or visit the inn on the next street along.