Part 25 (2/2)
”What are you talking about?” asked Artsivus.
”You see, Your Magics.h.i.+p, as we were plowing through the old chronicles, we came across the interrogation of a certain Djok Imargo. The man whom everyone knows under the name of Djok the Winter-Bringer. He claimed that he had been deliberately framed for the murder of the Prince of the Black Rose, which was committed by the Master's henchmen. Of course, no one could find any Master, n.o.body had ever even heard of him, and Djok was handed over to the elves.”
”Did he tell you anything about this, Lady Miralissa?” the archmagician inquired.
”I'm sorry, milords, but I don't know that piece of history very well,” Miralissa said with a shake of her head. ”And in addition, it was an internal matter of the House of the Black Rose, so the House of the Black Moon did not intervene. I will ask Ell. He is one of the elves accompanying me, from the House of the Black Rose.”
”Very well. Let us consider the Master to be perfectly real and just as dangerous as the Nameless One-if not more dangerous. After all, we still don't understand what it is he wants,” said the king.
”A r.e.t.a.r.ded ogre could understand what he wants,” Kli-Kli objected. ”He doesn't want the Horn to fall into our hands.”
”There are many who do not wish to see the Horn return to the world. Even the Order is among those who regard it as too dangerous, but unfortunately it is essential. Do you have the papers with you, Harold?” Artsivus asked.
I nodded reluctantly. It had cost me much effort to obtain them, and now I didn't really feel like handing the plans of Hrad Spein over to the Order. Not even on a temporary basis.
”Would you please let me have a look at them?”
There was nothing I could do but reach into the bag and hand the papers to the archmagician. He began studying the maps, moving his lips occasionally when he came across lines that he found interesting.
The others began waiting patiently for the archmagician to condescend to share his observations. But just then the doors of the room swung open and the lieutenant of the palace guard whom I already knew came in.
”I beg your pardon, Your Majesty, but the gnomes are outside. ...” The lieutenant looked a little crestfallen.
”And what is it that they want, Izmi?”
”They say that a goblin remarkably similar to your jester stole their, or rather, your your cannon, as soon as they managed to repair it.” cannon, as soon as they managed to repair it.”
”How can that be?” Like everyone else, the king could not really understand how little Kli-Kli could have made off with the huge, heavy cannon.
”The gnomes say he used a spell and the cannon simply disappeared.”
”Kli-Kli, is this true?”
”Well, not exactly,” the jester muttered, studying the toes of his boots.
”What does 'not exactly' mean?” the king roared.
”Well then, it's true,” the jester muttered, acknowledging Lieutenant Izmi's accusation. ”I only wanted to try out one of the spells from Harold's bag.”
”You tried it, and now I'll have to pay for it! Who's going to settle matters with the gnomes?”
The jester maintained a polite silence, pretending to be very, very ashamed. No one believed in Kli-Kli's repentance, of course.
”Try to smooth this matter over.”
Having received this impracticable order, the poor lieutenant did not hesitate for an instant, but found the inner strength to nod and set out to do battle with the gnomes. The a.s.signment he had been given was dangerous and difficult. Not to mention impossible.
”Listen here,” Artsivus said, clearing his throat. The archmagician had not taken the slightest notice of the unpleasant incident that had just taken place. All of his attention had been focused on the old papers. ”There's something very interesting here. ...”
The master of the Order read out the riddle in rhyme that had interested For so much. But unlike my teacher, the archmagician had no need to reach for a dictionary; he had complete command of the original language of the orcs and elves-ancient orcish.
”I can say straightaway that one quatrain is the most absolute and blatant piece of plagiary that I have ever seen in my life,” the jester put in as soon Artsivus finished reading.
”And which one is it you don't like?” the archmagician asked in surprise.
The jester declaimed in a singsong voice:
In serried ranks, embracing the shadows,The long-deceased knights stand in silence,And only one man will not die 'neath their swords,He who is the shadows' own twin brother.
”That's from the Bruk-Gruk Bruk-Gruk.”
”From the goblins' Book of Prophecies Book of Prophecies?” Miralissa inquired. ”Are you certain?”
”I've never been more certain in my life. It's definitely from the Bruk-Gruk Bruk-Gruk. Only, some learned scribes have altered the rhythm.” The goblin seemed about to burst in his indignation that someone had dared to corrupt a great goblin prophecy.
”What book are you talking about?” Alistan asked. Like me, he had never heard of any Bruk-whatever book.
”My dear count,” said Kli-Kli, his voice oozing venomous disdain. ”You really ought to set your sword aside and take up reading. The Bruk-Gruk Bruk-Gruk, or Book of Prophecies Book of Prophecies, was written by the insane shaman Tre-Tre three and a half thousand years ago. It is an account in verse of the most important and crucial events that will take place in the world of Siala for the next ten thousand years. For instance, it foretold the appearance of the Nameless One. And there are lines about the Forbidden Territory, too, although the Order took no notice of them in times gone by.”
Artsivus frowned even more darkly at these words from the goblin, but apparently decided it was below his dignity to argue with a jester.
”My grandfather was a shaman,” Kli-Kli went on. ”And he trained me, too. However I was not born to be a magician. But I do remember the Book of Prophecies Book of Prophecies by heart, and so I recognized the quatrain immediately.” by heart, and so I recognized the quatrain immediately.”
The jester's voice positively rang with pride. I think his shaman grandfather would have been no less proud of his grandson. Memorizing an entire book written by some crazy madman-that definitely requires persistence and talent.
”And what was the quatrain in the original?”
Tormented by thirst and cursed by darkness,The undead sinners bear their punishment.And only one will not die in their fangs,He who dances with the shadows like a brother.
”That's not so smooth. I liked the first version a lot better,” I said, letting him know my opinion of the poetry of the goblins.
”Oh, just look at you! The great connoisseur of literature and art! That was written by the great insane shaman Tre-Tre!” said Kli-Kli, trying to put me in my place.
”That's pretty obvious.” This time I didn't intend to let the jester have the last word.
”But then we don't steal other people's prophecies and transform them into neat little verses,” the goblin snorted, and turned his back on me.
My ignorance of the literary masterpiece by a goblin shaman who gorged himself on magic mushrooms had finally convinced the little jester that I was basically illiterate.
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