“A deal.” I took a deep breath.
“Are you ready, manling?”
“Yes.” Without even looking, I grabbed a couple of ancient tomes off the nearest shelf.
What can I say, it’s a professional habit. I could sell those books to people who appreciated them for huge money—why not earn a bit extra, since I hadn’t been able to stick my nose into the gnomes’ bank?
“I’ll just take . . .”
Vukhdjaaz grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and pulled me up against him.
In the first instant the wall leapt toward me. In the second something gray flickered in front of my eyes and my ears felt as if they were stuffed with cotton wool. In the third, I was already standing beside the magic wall, blinking in amazement.
“. . . a couple of books,” I said, completing my interrupted sentence.
“You already took them,” the demon snorted. “Well? Where is it?”
“Come to the Knife and Ax tomorrow at exactly one minute after midnight and I’ll give you the Horse.”
Vukhdjaaz gave a muffled growl and bared his huge teeth. “I can tell you’re lying!”
“Why would I?” I asked, shrugging my shoulders and squinting up nervously at the sky. About two minutes to dawn at the most. “You can always find me. Come, but at precisely the time I said, otherwise the Horse might no longer be there.”
“Don’t try to tell me what to do, you little snake! I’ll be there!” the demon growled, and disappeared into the wall of the nearest house. He didn’t even remind me about sucking the marrow out of my bones.
I breathed a sigh of relief, carefully set the books on the top of the wall, clambered up onto it myself, and was about to climb down when I remembered a piece of unfinished business.
“Valder, you have to go now.”
“Good-bye,” the archmagician’s voice replied immediately.
“Thank you. Live in the light.”
I felt something disappear from inside me. The archmagician was gone.
I jumped down from the wall, then reached up and took the books lying on top of it. Well, that was that. I’d done something no one else had ever done—gone right through the Forbidden Territory. Of course, I’d cheated a bit and obtained help from a demon, but your average philistine didn’t have to know anything about that.
I was just about to go when I heard a shout from behind the wall:
“Harold, save me!”
I jumped up, grabbed hold of the top of the wall, pulled myself up, and saw who was calling me.
It was Shnyg, hobbling and stumbling along the Street of the Roofers and repeatedly falling over. So he’d survived, the tenacious son of a bitch! He must have raced the entire length of the street to get here in time.
“Shnyg, old buddy, do you need my help?”
“Harold! Don’t leave me!” he shouted.
I’m not exactly overflowing with love for neighbors who would like to stick a knife in my heart, but there was a good reason to help Shnyg . . . if, of course, he was willing to tell me about his client and about the mysterious Master.
“Quick!” I barked. “Speed up! Dawn’s almost here.”
There was despair written all over the thief’s simple face. With all his might, he forced himself to go faster.
“Now,” I said, honey dripping from my words. “All you have to do is tell me who your client is, and what you know about the Master. Then, my friend, I’ll quick pull you right over the wall.”
Shnyg stopped and wailed, “I can’t do that, Harold. He’ll kill me sure! Please! Help me over and we’ll make a deal!”
But then the pink dawn flooded the horizon, dispelling the darkness. I jumped back swiftly, sliding down off the wall onto the ground, and out of the corner of my eye I saw blinding-bright rays of crimson light come bursting out of the unfortunate thief in all directions. There was a muffled howl, and then silence. Oh well, I probably couldn’t have trusted anything he said, anyway.
I picked the heavy books up off the ground, hugged them against myself, and set off through the awakening neighborhoods of the Artisans’ City.
In this part of the city they got up very early. These hard workers left sleep behind when other people were still dozing. If you want to make money, get up early. Funny, the rich sleep late and they earn more than these poor slobs will ever see.
The baker had lit his stove long ago, and there was a pleasant smell of fresh bread and dough coming from his house. The milkman was hurrying on his rounds, pushing along a huge cart loaded with metal canisters. A tinsmith was on his way to the Port City. An old house painter yawned widely as he wandered along, still not fully awake.
“Go on, get out of it!” said a frail old woman, waving an equally old and tattered broom at a drunk lying on the ground. They don’t like idlers in the Artisans’ City.
I think that after the announcement that the demons of night had been driven out of Avendoom forever, the
