Alexey Pehov - Shadow Prowler

I looked around.

A small garden with a round open space at the center, spread with sand. It was probably used for something like a fencing ground. Or whatever it is they call that place where guardsmen are trained to wave their shafts of metal about. I could see through to the palace; it was almost directly behind it, in fact. I adjusted my bag on my shoulder and started waiting, carefully observing the people around me.

Oh yes, I was not the only one there. There were ten quite serious-looking lads hanging about nearby. I remembered their faces, because I’d seen them that night when I visited the duke’s house. They were the soldiers who had escorted Miralissa through the dark city.

Wild Hearts.

I drew a few mildly curious glances from them. But that was all. What in the name of a h’san’kor did they care about some stranger who had turned up out of the blue? Especially since all the Wild Hearts had urgent business to attend to. Some were playing dice, one was sleeping in the shade of the little fountain, some were checking their weapons, and one had decided to practice with his swords. And so Harold was ignored in a quite shameless manner.

In one corner of the garden there were four gnomes puffing and panting beside a bed of red roses. These short lads with narrow shoulders, so unlike their massive, smooth-faced cousins the dwarves, were circling round a massive cannon. They seemed to be trying to load it, but they couldn’t manage it somehow, and they were arguing irritably and waving their fists at each others’ red faces. This wasn’t really helping matters along, and the furious swearing only fueled the fire of argument.

The gnomes ran out of breath and started seeking a compromise. They tipped some powder into the cannon from a small, bright-red barrel. The ball was lying nearby, on the sand. One of the little folk, probably the youngest, to judge by his beard, tried to light his pipe, but received a smart cuff round the back of the head from one of his partners and put it back in his pocket with an offended sniff.

And I should think so, too! All we needed right now was to be blasted up into the air because of some bearded idiot’s carelessness.

I heard light, stealthy footsteps behind my back and said with a smile: “How’s life, Kli-Kli?”

“Ooh!” the goblin said in a disappointed voice. “How did you guess that it was me?”

“You were snuffling.”

“Oh no I wasn’t!” the jester protested, and sat down beside me on a step.

“Oh yes you were.”

“Oh no I wasn’t! And anyway, what do you mean by arguing with the king’s jester?” Kli-Kli asked resentfully, and to confirm what he had just said he put on the green jester’s cap with little bells that he had been holding in his hand.

“I’m not arguing,” I said with a shrug.

“Would you like a carrot?” the goblin asked amicably, producing one from behind his back.

The carrot was almost half as big as Kli-Kli himself. A queen of carrots. A massive great carrot.

“No, thank you.”

“You don’t want any? All right then. I can only ask, and there’ll be more left for me, anyway!”

The jester didn’t try to insist, he just bit a good-sized piece off the orange vegetable and started crunching on it, squinting contentedly at the sun.

“Vegetables are good for you, Harold,” the jester declared with his mouth full. “You can’t live on just meat.”

“Are you and I about to have a gastronomical debate?” I asked, arching one eyebrow.

We just sat there like that, me saying nothing and watching the gnomes at work, Kli-Kli dining and sometimes twitching his little feet, evidently trying to perform some dance that only he knew. I must say that it looked very amusing.

“I have two pieces of news, good and bad. Which one shall I start with?” Kli-Kli asked when there was exactly half of the oversized carrot left.

“The good news, I suppose,” I muttered lazily.

It was hot, but the weather was marvelous, and I was enjoying basking in the sun.

“The good news is this,” said the goblin, shaking the tip of his cap so that the bells jingled joyfully. “You’re going tomorrow morning.” Jingle-jingle.

“Now let’s have the bad news.”

“The bad news is this.” The jester sighed sadly and the bells tinkled mournfully. “Unfortunately, I’m staying in the palace and not going with you.”

“Hmm… Your sense of values is all topsy-turvy, jester,” I hemmed. “It’s the other way round for me. The good news is bad and the bad news is good.”

“Hah,” Kli-Kli sniffed resentfully. “You’ll be sorry yet that I didn’t go with you!”

“Why’s that?”

“Who’s going to protect you on the way?” he asked with a perfectly serious expression on his face.

“I think I’ll get by all right,” I replied in the same tone of voice. “What are the Wild Hearts and the Rat for?”

“By the way, about the Wild Hearts,” Kli-Kli said, and sank his sharp teeth into the unfortunate carrot again. “Have you had a chance to get to know them yet?”

“No. Why, have you?”

“I should say so! They’ve been here for about a week,” the jester answered indignantly.

But of course. How dare I cast doubt on his ability to make new acquaintances.

“I’ll introduce them to you, only from here, at a distance, if you have no objection.”

“Have you managed to offend them already?” The only possible reason for Kli-Kli’s reluctance to approach the soldiers was that the little parasite had played some kind of nasty trick on the Wild Hearts.

“Why do you assume I’ve offended them?” the jester asked sulkily, looking at me with his bright blue eyes full of reproach. “All I did was pour a bucket of water into each of their beds, and they got upset about it.”

“I expect they did!” I chuckled.

“Well then. You see those ones playing dice? The big one with the yellow hair is Honeycomb. The one beside him with the beard is Uncle. The skinny, bald one. He’s the leader of this glum group. And that one over there, the plump one, is called Tomcat. Miaow!” said Kli-Kli as loud as he could, and stuck out his tongue.

“I see,” I said, examining the threesome playing dice.

Honeycomb was a broad-shouldered hulk two yards tall with powerful, sinewy hands, a head that appeared to have no neck but grew straight out of his shoulders, and hair the color of lime-blossom honey. His rather simple features identified him as a country boy. You can tell them from the city types straightaway.

“Huppah!” laughed Uncle as he tossed the dice once again and leaned down over them with his comrades.

Uncle was more than fifty years old, with a few sparse gray hairs that had somehow survived on his bald head, and a thick gray beard. Compared with Honeycomb he didn’t look very tall, but he and the giant Honeycomb and the other Wild Hearts all had one thing in common: the experience of men who serve on the walls of the Lonely Giant on the edge of the Desolate Lands.

“I swear on a h’san’kor,” Tomcat growled, “but your luck’s in today, Uncle! I pass.”

The fat, round-faced Wild Heart’s behavior and harsh voice were nothing at all like a cat’s. The only thing that did lend him any resemblance to the animal was his mustache, which looked a bit like a cat’s whiskers.

“Don’t play if you don’t want to,” his leader laughed.

Tomcat waved his hand at his partners and lay down on the grass in front of the fountain, beside the sleeping soldier.

“I suppose that one must be called Sleepy or Snorer?” I asked ironically.

“The one beside Tomcat?” the jester asked. “No, they call him Loudmouth.”

“Why?”

“How should I know?” asked Kli-Kli, pursing his lips. “They won’t talk to me. And all I did was leave a dead rat in their room!”