The jester clapped his hands in a caricature of applause. Stalkon knew how to fire a weapon. In general there were many things he was good at. Especially maintaining a firm grip on the kingdom. The simple people adored him, although he had ruthlessly repressed the rebellions that had flared up several times during the spring famine. And everybody also knew that, in addition to the crown, His Majesty had inherited knowledge from his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather. The great intellect of the dynasty of Stalkon was legendary throughout the land.
He hadn’t raised taxes excessively, but neither had he reduced them to paltry levels. He had loosened the traders’ and merchants’ leashes, but arranged things so that if they wanted to trade in Valiostr, then they paid taxes. He also took money from the guilds of thieves and assassins. He did not oppress the other races that were friendly to men, and they repaid him, if not with friendship, then at least with tolerance toward humans, and they obeyed the laws of the kingdom.
The king’s only mistake, or so his enemies whispered, was the idea of an alliance with the gnomes: When it was concluded the dwarves fell out with Valiostr and locked themselves away in their mountains. Of course, a small community of dwarves had remained in Avendoom, basically the most greedy of them, dreaming of raking in a little more gold from the sale of expensive craftwork, although even they disapproved of the fact that men had come to terms with the gnomes, the enemies of all dwarves. In this matter, however, I was on the king’s side. If the choice was between the swords that dwarves made for the richest inhabitants of the kingdom and the cannon that the gnomes made, naturally you had to choose what was more effective in battle and cheaper—the cannon.
“An interesting toy. But we’re not here now to talk about your crossbow,” the king said, setting the discharged weapon back down on the small table. “Could you tell me, thief, how you came by this item?”
The delighted jester took out a gold statuette of a dog from behind the armchair and showed it to me. My back was instantly bathed in cold, sticky sweat. Although I managed to hold my face in a mask of polite respect, a note of panic appeared in my voice. There in the goblin’s hands was the trinket from the duke’s house. So that was where Gozmo’s man had taken it. Good old Gozmo! If we happen to meet again, there’s a very unpleasant conversation in store for him.
So now all the clues pointed to me. Now I was implicated in a crime against the crown. The quartering they would administer would be regarded as the grace of the gods and the mercy of the king’s court. If only they didn’t do anything worse to me! I decided I had better say nothing and listen.
“Clever and cautious. Rare qualities,” said the woman, surveying me from behind her dense veil.
The jester giggled quietly at some joke only he understood, and scuttled round the room. Then, still clutching the statuette in his hand, he stood beside Alistan, copied his pose and serious expression, and froze, setting his hand on the head of the golden dog and transforming it into an improvised sword. I almost burst out laughing. It really was just like the Rat and very funny. The goblin certainly earned his pay.
“It was on our instructions, Harold, that you found yourself in the home of my most dear departed cousin. Before deciding if you were suited to a certain job, we had to test you. And a setting more ideal than my cousin’s town house, with a garrinch roaming around freely at night, is hard to imagine. Don’t you agree?”
“The royal treasure house would be even more ideal,” I blurted out.
Shadow Harold had nothing more to lose. It was obvious anyway that in the morning I would be taking the journey to the Gray Stones. I reminded myself once again to have a word with Gozmo when I got the chance—to thank him for palming off this “Commission” on me.
“Oho! Shadow Harold has a sweet tooth!” the goblin squeaked.
I cast a caustic glance at him, but he only laughed mockingly and stuck his tongue out again.
“I know that, Kli-Kli,” Stalkon replied to the jester, then he picked up my knife, drew it out of its scabbard and, as he studied it, asked casually, “What happened in the house that night? How did he die?”
I swallowed the spittle that had thickened in my mouth and launched into my story under the gaze of five watchful pairs of eyes. No one interrupted me, Archmagician Artsivus seemed to be dozing in his chair and, remarkably enough, the goblin’s face was thoughtful and troubled. When I finished my story, an oppressive silence filled the room, with only the fire crackling quietly in the hearth.
“I told you, Your Majesty, not to trust the duke,” Alistan blurted out angrily. For some reason he had believed my story straightaway, and now his eyes were glittering with fury. “I’ll double the guard.”
The king stroked his chin thoughtfully, studying me intently for a while without saying anything. Then he nodded his head abruptly, clearly having made up his mind.
“We’ll talk about my safety later, good friend Alistan. But first I have a proposition for our guest. Harold, do you know who the Nameless One is?” Stalkon asked, taking me by surprise.
“He is evil and darkness.” The question had perplexed me.
The Nameless One, the Nameless One. The one they used to frighten you with in your distant childhood, when you wouldn’t go to bed on time.
Alistan snorted, as if he had expected no more from a thief.
“That depends on how you understand the word,” the monarch said. “Evil. Hmm . . . But are you aware that, outside of Valiostr, the Nameless One is known only in the Border Kingdom, and then only because the orcs attack those lands with his name on their lips? Well, and perhaps also in Isilia, and somewhat in Miranueh, but there the Nameless One is no more than a terrible fairy tale. He is actually not entirely black evil, and far from being darkness, merely a very powerful wizard who settled in the Desolate Lands and has been dreaming for a long, long time of seeing Valiostr reduced to ruins.”
“By your leave . . . ,” said the archmagician, breaking his silence and butting into the conversation for the first time. “Young man, let me tell you a legend that is really not a legend at all, but the plain truth. . . . Five hundred years or so ago, when our kingdom was not yet so great and powerful, two brothers lived in Avendoom. One of them was a magnificent general, the other a talented magician who studied the various aspects of shamanism. At that time magic was still a mysterious art to men—it was constantly being improved, we were still learning, borrowing from the experience of the dark elves, orcs, and goblins. Later we added a little something of our own to produce what we have now. Unfortunately the stone magic of the gnomes and dwarves is beyond us. Hmm . . . But I digress. . . . It happened in the final year of the Quiet Times, as that period is now known. The general Grok . . . I hope you know that name?”
I nodded. Everyone knew Grok Square and the general’s statue. The old man grunted approval, fidgeting in an effort to make himself more comfortable in his chair, and then went on with his story:
