Well, of course, when I say “person,” that’s something of an exaggeration. There, staring at me with arctic blue eyes, was a green-skinned goblin. The genuine article. One of those who live somewhere in the Forests of Zagraba, side by side with orcs and elves.
The goblins are an unfortunate and downtrodden race. They are no taller than the smallest of gnomes. That is, they come up to about my navel, no higher than that. From the dawn of time men, confusing things in the way they always do, believed that goblins were the orcs’ allies, and for century after century attempted to exterminate this universally persecuted tribe of Siala.
The systematic extermination of the race of goblins was so successful that this once multitudinous, peaceful race, which had suffered from the scimitars of the orcs as well as the swords and pikes of men, was almost completely wiped out. And when men finally realized the truth (that is, when they swallowed their pride and asked the elves), there were only a few small tribes left, hiding in the remotest thickets of Zagraba with the help of their shamans’ magic.
And so, we had even begun taking them into service. They proved to be very intelligent and resourceful, their little claret-colored tongues could be very sharp, and they were adroit and nimble, therefore perfectly suited for service as messengers and spies.
And in addition, the Order of Magicians was very interested in goblin shamanism, which derived from the rites of the orcs and the dark elves.
Shamanism, for anyone who doesn’t know, is the most ancient form of wizardry in this world. It appeared in Siala together with the ogres, the most ancient race. And therefore the magicians of men are tremendously curious about the primordial source, which was borrowed from the ogres by the orcs, then the elves, and then the goblins.
By the way, the little green-skinned lad on the carpet in front of me happened to be a jester. That was clear from his cap with little bells, his jester’s leotard in red and blue squares, and the jester’s mace that he was clutching in his green hand. The goblin was sitting there with his funny little legs crossed, occasionally turning his head, so that his little bells tinkled in a gay melody.
Noticing me studying him in astonishment, he laughed, with a bright flash of teeth as sharp as needles. He sniffed through his long, hooked nose, winked his blue eye, and showed me his claret-colored tongue. Magnificent! That was all I needed to really make my day!
I transferred my gaze to the final stranger in the room, sitting in the armchair in front of which the goblin had positioned himself. To look at, this man was very much like a prosperous innkeeper. Fat and short, with a bald head and neat, tidy hands. And his clothes were more than modest: the spacious brown trousers worn by ordinary guardsmen, and simple thick sweater of sheep’s wool, very suitable for the frosts of January—the kind knitted by the peasants who live beside the Lonely Giant fortress. I wondered if he felt hot in it.
All in all, the man in front of me was entirely gray and undistinguished. Especially if you failed to notice the thick gold ring with an enormous ruby on his right hand, and his eyes. Those brown eyes were full of intelligence, steel, and power. The power of a king.
I bowed low and froze.
“Just so,” Stalkon the Ninth said in a deep, resonant voice.
It was the voice I had heard when they led me into the room.
“So this is the thief famous throughout the whole of Avendoom? Shadow Harold?”
“Yes indeed, Your Majesty,” Baron Lanten, who was standing beside me, replied obsequiously.
“Well now.” The king patted the seated jester on the head and the jester purred in pleasure, imitating a cat. “You found him quickly, Frago. Far more quickly than I was expecting. I thank you.”
The baron lowered his head modestly and pressed his hand to his heart, although any fool could see that he was absolutely delighted to be praised.
“Wait outside the door, baron, if you would be so kind,” Archmagician Artsivus said from his chair with a cough.
The commander of the guard bowed once more and went out, closing the door firmly behind him.
“I have heard a lot about you, Harold,” the king said, looking intently into my eyes.
“I did not think my reputation was so great, Your Majesty.” I felt awkward in the company of the leading figures of the state.
“Ah, but he’s bold,” the jester declared squeakily, pulling yet another face at me and turning his eyes in toward his nose.
“And modest,” the mysterious woman said with a laugh, running the finger of a gloved hand along the edge of her crystal goblet. You always hear about women whose laughter sounds like music in all those silly love songs. I always thought it was just the bards singing through their hats. I never imagined it was true. And fancy hearing it in this company. She would bear watching, this one. Oh, not because Harold is so taken with a pretty lady. I like ladies enough—in their place. No, no, this lady was commanding, dangerous . . . different. You could tell just by her demeanor that she was the equal of anyone in the room—even the king. And they all knew it, too. Let us not say that cranky old Harold was suspicious . . . no, not suspicious, exactly . . . but she would bear watching, this one.
I felt like a cow at market, being discussed by two peasant buyers.
“Have a seat, Harold,” said the king, gesturing graciously in my direction, and I sat down in an armchair with a tall, carved back depicting some episode from the battle that took place on the Field of Sorna.
“With your permission?” the king asked casually, picking my crossbow up off the little table standing beside his armchair.
The knife, lock picks, and razor were lying there, too.
“Made by dwarves?”
Without even giving me time to nod, His Majesty aimed the weapon at the ancient suit of armor standing in the farthest corner of the room and pressed the trigger. The string twanged and the bolt whined as it flew straight in through the eye slit of the knight’s helmet.
