3
The Trouble Begins
We got back to the tavern without any adventures. When I say without any adventures, I mean nothing terrible happened on the way home: Mumr didn’t try to conjure the call of a deliriously happy donkey out of his reed pipe; Hallas didn’t get into an argument with anyone; Kli-Kli didn’t hike up the skirts of any venerable matrons, sing vulgar little songs, or make faces at the guard; and Eel didn’t slit anyone’s throat out of the kindness of his heart.
Walking through the city with my comrades was like dancing a djanga with the Nameless One on a bone- china plate suspended over a chasm full of boiling lava—at any moment the sorcerer might roast you alive, or the plate might shatter, leaving you to take a rather unpleasant bath.
“Home, sweet home!” Kli-Kli sang as he slipped in through the gates of the Learned Owl. “Hey, get off! That hurts!”
These last remarks were addressed to Eel, who had grabbed the jester’s shoulder in a crayfish-tight grip.
“Don’t move,” Eel whispered. “There’s something wrong here. Harold, do you notice anything?”
“It’s too quiet,” I replied, looking round the dark courtyard. “The lantern over the door isn’t lit. I think it’s broken.… There’s not a single attendant, and this morning they were as thick as flies in the yard. The only lights are on the ground floor.”
“Trouble?” Marmot’s dagger jangled quietly as it slid out of its sheath.
“I don’t know,” Eel muttered, letting go of Kli-Kli and taking out his daggers. “But somehow I don’t recall seeing any crossbow bolts in the wall this morning.”
That was when I noticed the bolt sticking out of the wall of the inn, which was brightly lit by the moonlight.
“Split up,” Deler commanded. “Harold, you’re a thief, creep across and try to take a look in the window. We need to find out who came visiting.”
I may be a thief, but I’m not suicidal. I didn’t get a chance to say that out loud. A dark silhouette stirred in the shadow beside the door, a pair of amber-yellow eyes glinted, and a voice asked: “Where have you been all this time?”
My heart tumbled into my boots and lay there like a frightened rabbit, skipping three beats—I thought the color of the messenger’s eyes had changed to red, and I didn’t recognize Ell’s voice straightaway.
“What’s happened, Ell?” Kli-Kli asked, and was just about to go dashing over to the elf, but he was stopped by Eel’s cool command.
“Don’t move, Kli-Kli.”
The goblin froze on the spot and looked round at the Garrakian warrior. Eel hadn’t put his daggers back in their sheaths yet.
“Don’t you recognize Ell?”
“Come out into the light, Ell, if you wouldn’t mind,” the Garrakian said softly instead of answering the goblin.
Far too softly and calmly! Eel was as tense as a taut bowstring, poised to discharge its arrow at the enemy.
Why did he suspect the elf?
A stupid question. Like me, the warrior surely remembered Miralissa telling us that some of the Nameless One’s servants could change their shape so that they looked like your friends, or even make themselves invisible. It was one of those creatures that Tomcat and Egrassa had killed near the shamans’ camp during our journey.
“What’s wrong, Eel?” the elf asked in a rather unfriendly hiss.
The Garrakian didn’t trust anyone, but for an elf unjustified mistrust is a serious insult. So serious that it can even lead to a duel. But Eel wasn’t easily frightened, he knew what he was doing.
“Just come out into the light, that’s all. You know as well as I do what strange things have been happening to us recently.”
Ell stopped arguing and did as he was asked. He cast a quizzical glance at Eel. Swarthy skin, black lips, ash- gray hair with a fringe falling down over his yellow eyes, a pair of huge fangs, a black rose—the emblem of his house—embroidered on his shirt, a heavy elfin bow, and the inevitable s’kash behind his back. Miralissa’s k’lissang gently extended his lips out into a faint mocking smile.
“Well? Do I look right?”
Eel maintained a gloomy silence, studying the elf’s face. Almost casually Deler darted to the left and Arnkh to the right, outflanking the dark elf.
“If I wanted to stop you, you wouldn’t get ten steps,” said the elf.
What’s true is true. Unlike Miralissa and Egrassa, Ell had no knowledge of shamanism (magic is a matter for the higher clans of the elfin houses), but he was a superb shot. All seven of us would have got an arrow in the eye before Kli-Kli could even say “Boo!”
“Yes, it’s you,” Eel said with a nod, and put his daggers away in their sheaths, while keeping his eyes on the elf’s bow. “Sorry.”
I couldn’t hear any remorse in the proud Garrakian’s voice.
“Praiseworthy caution.” Ell’s lips curved into a genuine smile.
“What’s happened?” Kli-Kli asked with a sniff.
“Go inside, Miralissa will tell you everything. Then one of you can relieve me.… We have to find Honeycomb, too.”
“Where’s he gone off to?” asked Deler, as puzzled as all the rest of us.
“Ask Miralissa,” the elf said curtly, and disappeared into the darkness.
“He’s hiding in the shadows. Ha! But see the way his eyes glow! A blind man could spot him, and a gnome certainly could,” Hallas declared boastfully.
“You’re wrong,” said Eel, shaking his head. “He wanted us to see him. Never underestimate an elf, gnome.”
Hallas grunted, tugged on his beard, and walked into the inn, but I didn’t think he had changed his opinion about an elf’s skill when it came to lying in ambush. I followed him in and froze in the doorway—the floor was wet with wine that had soaked into the boards. The reason for this disgraceful state of affairs was a large wine barrel on a stand, into which some swine had fired five crossbow bolts. Naturally, all the wine had spilled out onto the floor, almost flooding the inn.
There were lots of bolts stuck in the oak door leading to the kitchen, and we saw at least as many in the walls. Most of the tables and chairs had been overturned or moved. And there were six bodies lying beside the bar counter.
I recognized one of the dead—it was the innkeeper, Master Pito. I could tell that three others were members of his staff. The final two were unfamiliar to me, and they had been slashed with a sword instead of shot with bolts like the master of the establishment and his employees.
Miralissa, Egrassa, and Alistan were standing in the very center of the large room. Milord Markauz was impassively cleaning the blood off his Canian-forged battery sword, while the elves were talking to each other in low voices. Uncle was sitting on the bar, clutching a beer mug in his left hand. The sergeant’s left shoulder was bandaged up and there was blood seeping through the white material.
“So there you are, rot your souls!” he swore as soon as he saw us. “In the name of the Nameless One, what are you doing wandering the streets when I need you here? I’ll tear your heads off, damn you, you assholes. Do I have to carry the can for all of you, may a stinking goat dance on your bones!”
“What happened?” Deler asked guiltily.
Quite uninhibited by Miralissa’s presence, Uncle proceeded to say what he thought of us in a style that we would understand, one best suited to conversation between stevedores in the Port City. The only more or less normal words I made out in his monologue were “have,” “on,” “go,” and “to.”
