“What’s the king doing?”
“No, that’s rubbish. There is no Nameless One!”
“Oh yes, there is! My granny told me about him, may she live in the light!”
“What’s the king doing? He’s gathering an army. Taxes will go shooting up again, and the poor people will suffer.”
“Hey!” I called to Artsivus’s apprentice.
“Yes?”
“We’ve got a long, long walk to the Tower of the Order. Wouldn’t it be better to turn off onto the Street of the Bedbugs? There’s no crush there.”
“Mmmm . . . ,” the lad said hesitantly. “Milord Artsivus said you have no business in the Tower of the Order. He asked me to take you to one of the houses near here.”
“All right then, let’s go.”
Does Artsivus think a thief will defile his holy magical sanctuary?
The number of people in the streets could be explained in the first instance by the incredibly fine weather for June. At this time of year in north Valiostr—which means in Avendoom, too—it was usually still cool, more reminiscent of early April somewhere on the southern boundaries of the kingdom. What else could you expect, with the Desolate Lands so close? But the situation right now was rather different. The sun was blazing away with all its strength. I was streaming with sweat. And I wasn’t the only one. A citizen of the Border Kingdom walked past us with his apprentice. He was frying and smoking in his chain mail. The Borderland men never took their armor off, no matter where they were. It was a habit that came from living beside the Forests of Zagraba.
If this weather holds out until the end of August, then half the city will simply die of the heat. I’ve already heard people saying that it’s a new trial visited on us by the Nameless One.
“Harold! Hey, Harold!”
I turned toward the shout. There, standing outside the Knife and Ax, waving desperately to me, was the owner of said establishment, a good fellow and my “dearest friend” Gozmo.
What does he want with me? I already have a Commission. And what a Commission! Suicidally profitable, you could say. But all the same I gave a sharp tug on the sleeve of Artsivus’s apprentice and nodded for him to follow me. The lad opened his mouth to object that His Magicship was far more important than some innkeeper, but I turned my back on him and crossed to the other side of the street. The young magician had no choice but to follow me.
“What is it, Gozmo?” I asked none too amiably. “Why shout and let the whole city know that I’m Harold?
“Ah. Eer . . .” The stoop-shouldered innkeeper gave my companion an inquiring look.
“Will you stand me a beer?” I asked, nodding significantly toward the door. “We can talk in there.”
“Come on in.”
The inn was empty, which was only to be expected. Customers would start to appear as evening came on, in the twilight. The empty tables and benches looked strange and lonely. The fire was out. There were stools heaped up on the tables closest to the doors, with their legs sadly up toward the ceiling. Beside them the singer of the establishment, now playing the role of cleaning lady, was scrubbing away diligently with a rag. One of the bouncers was helping her. Yes, Gozmo’s staff were certainly masters of all trades.
“Come over to the bar, Harold, and your friend can take a seat at that table over there. What will you have to drink, young man?”
“Water.” The magician’s apprentice obviously felt awkward—his face was set in an expression of astonishment that he could possibly have entered such a dubious place of his own free will.
Gozmo pulled a sour face and looked at me. “Who’s your new friend?”
I shrugged, and Gozmo took a glass of water over to the apprentice’s table, then came and stood facing me, behind the bar, and poured a full mug of beer from a barrel hidden underneath it. He drank that beer himself and rarely shared it with anyone. I took a large gulp and gave Gozmo an appreciative nod. It was genuinely magnificent porter, just as I had expected. My old mate Gozmo didn’t poison his own innards with the rubbish that he poured for most of his regulars without any pangs of conscience.
The former thief wasn’t drinking right now, though. He was shifting nervously from one foot to the other and casting wary glances in my direction. Why would that be? But he didn’t say anything, and I’ve never been unduly curious, so I simply sipped the beer, waiting for the innkeeper to explain why he had called me over.
“So, why did you call me, my old friend?” I asked impatiently. “That’s a fine beer you’ve stood me, of course, but what’s the reason for it?”
“You know, Harold,” Gozmo said nervously, giving me another wary glance. “I wanted to apologize for what happened. Believe me, I’m very sorry, if I’d known it would all turn out like that, I would never have—”
“You mean the garrinch in the duke’s house?” I interrupted, playing ignorant and forgetting to mention the incident with Lanten and the fact that I knew perfectly well who the client had been.
I’m going to keep that conversation for a more appropriate moment.
“The garrinch? Ah, yes. That’s what I mean,” Gozmo said uncertainly, in a slightly surprised voice. He sat down on a chair, relieved to realize that I didn’t intend to declare war and spill blood. “I just wanted you to know that I had absolutely no idea.”
“Calm down, will you, Gozmo! What’s got you so nervous all of a sudden?” I said, waving my hand magnanimously. “After all, nothing terrible happened, did it? No one got hurt. I’ve got other business to attend to, so I’d better be going.”
“So you accept my apology?” Gozmo asked in relief.
He looked as if the full weight of the Zam-da-Mort itself had fallen from his shoulders. It was all very
