Shadow Prowler

every nobleman in the kingdom, and so I maneuvered through the bustling stream of townsfolk who were already up and hurrying about their business and made my way to the right side of the gray building, were there was a separate entrance for employees.

I walked up to the cast-iron door and knocked loudly. But as always happens, my modest personage was ignored in the most shameless fashion. After waiting for a couple of minutes, I hammered again, with redoubled strength. Silence again. Has everybody in there gone to sleep, then? I can easily believe it, there are never many visitors, especially since entrance is restricted to nobles, priests, and members of the Order. Simple folk have no need of books, they’re happy if they can manage to feed their families. I waited for a while and then knocked yet again, so loudly that the racket frightened the pigeons on the nearby roofs, and the startled flock went soaring up into the cloudless June sky.

Eventually a lock clicked, a bolt squeaked, the door opened a crack, and an old man peered out at me with a short-sighted, angry expression.

“What’s all the racket about, you hooligan?”

I didn’t say a word, just held out the king’s ring before the old man had time to slam the door in my face. He screwed up his eyes and peered closely at the circle of gold, then opened the door and stepped aside.

“Why didn’t you say so straightaway? Come in then, if you’ve nothing better to do at home.”

There was no point in arguing, so I walked into the library, and the old man rapidly slammed the door behind me.

“They’re always trying to get me! But I’m too smart for them!” The old man giggled and grinned gleefully, exposing the worn stumps of yellow teeth.

“Who are they?” I asked in an effort to patch things up with the caretaker.

“Ogres!”

Well, how about that? The old man’s touched. He’s gone completely round the bend hidden away in here among all these books.

The old man nodded a few times, and then shuffled off along a narrow corridor into the depths of the building. I had no option but to go after him.

“What have you come for, then? To increase your stock of knowledge?” the old man asked querulously.

“Uh-huh.”

“A magician’s apprentice, I suppose.”

“Yes.”

“Oh, sure,” the old-timer chortled, not believing a single word.

For a minute we walked on in total silence along service corridors with dim light streaming in through narrow little steel-barred windows. Specks of dust glittered and sparkled as they drifted through the rays of sunlight.

“So tell me, apprentice, what the hell are you doing with that wasp hidden under your cloak?” the old man suddenly asked in a cunning voice, stopping and looking me straight in the eyes.

“I see you’re sharp-sighted,” I said, amazed. “How do you know about the wasp?”

“How do I know?” the old man muttered, walking on. “I served thirty years as a scout in the Wild Hearts. So I ought to be able to spot a lousy little crossbow, even if it is hidden.”

“The Wild Hearts? A scout? Thirty years?”

“Sure.”

Well now, how about that! The old-timer’s a genuine hero, a walking legend! But then what’s he doing in a place like this? Over their period of service the wild ones put together a fair-sized fortune, so they can relax and live out the rest of their lives in their own little houses with no worries or cares, and no need to slave away day and night, choking on old dust.

“You’re not lying?” Somehow it was hard to believe I was face-to-face with a genuine Wild Heart, even a retired one.

The old man snorted angrily and rolled up the sleeve of his greasy, moth-eaten, light green shirt to reveal a tattoo on his forearm. A small purple heart, the kind that lovers draw on walls, only this one had teeth.

The Wild Heart. And below it the title of his unit: BRIAR.

So the old-timer isn’t lying. No fool on earth would be stupid enough to tattoo himself with the symbol of the Wild Hearts, let alone the name of a reconnaissance unit. The Hearts would simply slice the rogue’s arm off, tattoo and all. And they wouldn’t bother about his age.

I whistled.

“Oho! And how many missions?”

“Forty-three,” the old man muttered modestly. “I got as far as the Needles of Ice with my detachment.”

I almost stumbled and fell. Forty-three missions beyond the Lonely Giant? That was impressive. This old- timer deserved a little respect.

“Was it tough?”

“You bet it was,” the old man replied, thawing a little. “We’re here.”

We left the dark, narrow little corridor behind us and entered an immense hall that seemed to go on forever. The vast numbers of tables and chairs for visitors were all empty, except for one, where a youth wearing the robes of the Order was sitting. He was leafing through a thick, dusty book, blowing his nose into a handkerchief every second. The snot-nosed juvenile took no notice of us.

An entire lifetime would be far too short to read everything that had accumulated in the library over the