Part 20 (1/2)

”If it please milord, there's no doubt. It's Yargi. He was on the night s.h.i.+ft with the sixth patrol. The Port City.”

”From Justin's unit?”

”They have another commander now. In that business beside Stark's Stables Justin-”

”I know, I know. You don't have to remind me,” Frago snapped.

”Well, what a night!” Frago exclaimed, and spat. ”Harold, do you at least know that you b.u.mped off one of my men?”

”Of course no, milord. He didn't bother to introduce himself before trying to reduce me to prime cuts.”

”I see.” Frago sighed. ”Well, there's a mangy sheep in every herd.”

I could have told the baron that he had more than one mangy sheep in his herd, but I maintained a judicious silence. They say silence is golden, and just recently I'd begun to understand that they're right.

”Come with me; you can identify him,” Frago said with an imperious gesture.

Uh-huh. Why, of course! I had nothing better to do than go running after the baron like a lapdog up on its hind legs.

”Pardon me, milord, but I have the king's a.s.signment.”

That earned me another dour glance from Lanten. But he decided it was better not to insist. You didn't usually argue with the king's orders, unless you were a goblin jester. It could have a most lamentable effect on your health.

”All right. Get out of here.”

I didn't wait for the commander of the guard to change his mind, but disappeared into the corridor in a flash. And I didn't forget to pick up the torch on the way, to make the return journey bright and cheerful. I was in an absolutely foul mood.

15

ANSWERS

Pardon me for the foolish pun, but the Street of the Sleepy Dog was sunk in a deep sleep. It differed strikingly from its sister street-the Street of the Sleepy Cat-in both the arrangement of the houses and their size. The Sleepy Dog was rather short and winding, with an a.s.sortment of low-cla.s.s shops, little old houses, and a couple of inns with reputations that were not exactly the best.

I was standing right in front of one of them. One fine day that huge sign in the form of a knife and an ax promised to forget its public responsibilities and come tumbling down on the head of some unlucky pa.s.serby.

As I had expected, the Knife and Ax was empty. For had told me that Gozmo had closed up his little establishment for no apparent reason. Which was rather strange, if you knew how much money he lost by doing that. And not just from the sale of beer, but also from the fees that came his way when contracts for Commissions were concluded inside his inn.

The doors and the shutters were closed, but neither were any real barrier to me. I was in a determined mood and intended to visit Gozmo's inn that night, come what may. A serious conversation between my old friend and myself was long overdue, and night is the most convenient time for catching an innkeeper off guard. Between three and four in the morning he ought to be sleeping like a log and it's not very likely that he would be disposed to resist.

At first I felt like simply breaking in as bold as bra.s.s through the main door and walking right through the entire inn as if I owned the place, but I bridled my pa.s.sion and decided to break into Gozmo's bedroom window. It was a lot simpler, and there would be less fiddling about with locks and bolts.

The window of Gozmo's bedroom was on the second floor. I had the cobweb rope with me, and it only took me a minute to reach my goal. I had to spend a little more time on the catch. Unfastening it without making a racket was no simple job, but I don't earn my bread for nothing.

Gozmo was snoring away, trilling like a nightingale; nothing could have been farther from his mind than uninvited guests. There were several china pots with forget-me-nots in my way and I almost knocked them off the windowsill. I had to twist and turn like one of the circus acrobats on the Market Square in order to avoid breaking anything.

Gozmo carried on sleeping serenely. That's what's it like to have no conscience at all.

I tiptoed up to him, took the rope lying on his bedside table, and then carefully slipped my hand under the pillow. I was right. My fingers came across something cold. My old friend Gozmo wasn't quite as stupid and placid as you might think.

After borrowing his throwing knife, I made my way across to an armchair, brushed a few cheap rags off it, and sat down. I wanted to make Harold's entrance effective. The innkeeper had thoroughly deserved it, so it was worth my while thinking how to arrange everything for maximum effect, so that I could get at least some of my own back on the d.a.m.ned traitor.

When I'd visited Gozmo's room five years earlier (on that occasion I happened to go in through the door), there had been a heavy hunting horn hanging on one of the walls. Quite a valuable item. Now I got up, walked over to the wall, and felt along it until I found the toy trumpet.

I took out my crossbow, sat down in the armchair again, set the weapon on my knees, and imagined Gozmo's face. I felt like laughing, but I restrained myself.

I wasn't afraid of waking anyone else. Gozmo didn't rent out rooms, so there were no guests at the inn, and after their s.h.i.+ft the bouncers went home. We were alone in the building, and as for the inhabitants of the houses round about, they had seen far stranger things in their time. Or rather, heard them.

I raised the horn to my lips, filled my lungs with air, and blew.

What a sound that was! Even I hadn't expected such an effect! The sudden roar-which was like the rumble of a mountain avalanche mingled with the braying of an a.s.s crazed with terror-went hurtling round the room, bouncing off the walls and setting my ears ringing.

Gozmo stopped snoring, flew a full yard up into the air, together with his blanket, and when he landed he started shaking his head violently, still too sleepy to understand a thing. I had got my satisfaction and I roared in merry laughter.

”Who's there?” the villain barked. His eyes weren't accustomed to the dark yet and all he could see was the window.

His hand slid under the pillow like a snake and discovered nothing there.

”Harold.”

”Harold?”

”Who else could it be, visiting you at this hour? Light a candle.”

The innkeeper's hands were trembling and so it took a while for the light to appear, and when it did, it lit up the old swindler more than it did me. He was sitting on the edge of the bed with an absolutely idiotic expression on his face, batting his eyelids crazily. All he could see of me was a shadow in the armchair, a blurred form on the boundary between light and darkness. The light of the candle simply didn't reach me; the darkness devoured it when it was barely halfway there. I had to lean forward to bring my face into the circle of light.

”Well, have you recovered?” I inquired derisively.

”Harold, you're a real b.a.s.t.a.r.d!”

”I'm glad that you and I are in agreement on that point. Now let's talk.”

”What about?” Gozmo looked angry and dumbfounded at the same time.

”There's a little matter I need to discuss. I've been doing a lot of thinking-”

”That'll do you good,” the innkeeper interrupted.

The bowstring tw.a.n.ged, and a bolt went humming across the room and struck the headboard of the bed, very close to Gozmo. He jumped in the air.

”In the name of Darkness! What's wrong with you? Are you crazy?”

He seemed a little jittery.

”Be so kind as not to interrupt me. I've had a hard night and I've been feeling a bit on edge. So shut your trap and be so good as to hear me out.”