“That is precisely the point. We don’t,” the Rat exclaimed furiously. “And all thanks to the stupidity of the Order.”
“The Order acted out of the very best of motives!” the archmagician retorted sharply.
“Well, we’re certainly paying for them now!”
“Your job, milord Alistan, is to protect the king’s life and brandish that piece of ironmongery you carry, not to interfere in the business of the Order!” The old man was simply seething with indignation and his beard wagged in a way that reminded me of a Doralissian whose favorite horse has been stolen.
“That’s enough!” the king roared furiously. He didn’t seem anything like a good-natured innkeeper now. “Explain the thief’s task to him.”
“About three hundred years ago,” Artsivus began, speaking in a dull voice and casting a hostile glance at the captain of the guard from under his thick gray eyebrows, “the Council of the Order decided to use the Horn to annihilate the Kronk-a-Mor that binds the Nameless One to this world. We . . . we did not quite manage it. . . .”
Alistan snorted loudly.
“We ought to send Your Magicship to Miranueh as a diplomat! Perhaps we would get the disputed lands then?
“Yes . . . Nothing came of our attempt. We tried to control the magic of the ogres, about which we knew absolutely nothing. A power flow was shorted out at the wrong point or an operon was shifted several degrees off the fifth astral position. . . . Mmm, yes . . .” Artsivus realized that he had wandered into tangled thickets that were absolutely impenetrable to anyone but himself. “It was all out of control, and the sudden surge of magic struck Avendoom. Or rather, part of it. The part that is now known as the Secret Territory.”
“So that’s how it appeared . . . ,” I drawled.
“Do you realize how grateful the inhabitants of the glorious capital of Valiostr would be if they only knew who was responsible for putting the Stain on the map?” The goblin opened his eyes wide, transforming them into two small blue lakes.
The archmagician sighed heavily—evidently I was not the only one already weary of the jester—and continued:
“The Order decided to put the Horn as far out of harm’s way as possible. They charged it, then took it to Grok’s sepulchre and left it there. And that, in effect, is the entire story.”
“And you want me to get the Horn out of the grave?” I asked in amazement. “But what do you need me for? Any gravedigger with a spade could manage a simple little job like that! And by the way, where is Grok buried?”
A tense, oppressive silence filled the little room. The elfess and Artsivus exchanged astonished glances. The Count of the Rat gave a crooked smile and looked at me disdainfully. I will pass over the jester and his drooping jaw in polite silence. The king was the only one who carried on as before, twirling my knife in his hands, sometimes glancing at me and trying to figure out if I was deliberately playing the fool.
“Hm-hmm. Young man, do you know any history at all?” the magician asked cautiously.
“It would be about as much use to me as a h’san’kor. I’m a thief, not a learned old maid.” I was getting seriously tired of this buffoonery.
These lads certainly know how to wind up a man’s nerves.
“Why, he probably doesn’t even know how to read,” the goblin declared with a pompous air.
I ignored that.
“The Horn is buried with Grok in the Palaces of Bone, Harold,” the elfess said in a quiet voice, and she shuddered as if her swarthy skin had been touched by a cold wind from beyond the Mountains of Despair.
That was when I burst into laughter, realizing that these five lunatics were hoaxing me.
“He’s gone crazy,” the jester said in response to my laughter, shaking his green head dismally so that the little bells on his cap jangled sadly.
“They’re joking, aren’t they, Your Majesty? They must be! Why Hrad Spein? Wouldn’t it be easier for me to draw up a new Vastar’s Bargain and invite dragons to protect our beloved homeland? Or tame a h’san’kor for you? Believe me, I could manage that far more easily and much more quickly than an excursion to Hrad Spein!”
“They are not joking,” the king said in a serious voice, and the next burst of laughter stuck in my throat.
Isn’t that just wonderful! All I have to do is go down into Hrad Spein to retrieve some stupid magical whistle. . . .
“We need that Horn, Master Harold,” said the elfess, speaking to me tenderly, as if I were a capricious little child. “And we need it urgently. Before the onset of winter.”
“But why me?”
“Because only a tricky and cunning man will pass where a large troop of soldiers or magicians will get stuck in the mire. The finest thief in the kingdom, for instance. Yes, yes. Don’t try to be modest. We know far more about you than you think.”
“Does this mean others have already tried to get the Horn?”
“A hundred thousand demons! Yes!” Alistan clenched and unclenched his fists several times. “Do you really think we would have turned to a thief if there were any other way of getting into the damned catacombs? We sent the first expedition in winter. Of those who went down underground, none returned, and those who waited up above were cut down by orcs. The second party set out in early spring. In view of the failure of the first expedition, we sent an expedition of more than a hundred men. Experienced soldiers, eight magicians of the Order, plus support from the dark elves, who acted as our guides in the Forests of Zagraba. . . . And, may the demons take me, nothing came of it! Eighty men went down into the burial sites, and only one came back out, as white-haired as a
