The lads were downing the free beer provided by the generous Gozmo, who flitted from table to table filling the orders of the insolent bandits. The entire gang was very heavily armed; they looked as if they had just dropped in for a minute before going off to make war on the Nameless One.
It looked like I was in for a genuine fireworks show.
His Majesty, Milord Fat Ass, the head of the Gang of Corpse-Eaters that was unworthy to bear the title of the Avendoom Guild of Thieves, was sitting at a separate table straight below me. If there had been no barrier between us in the form of the floor, I would have been absolutely delighted to spit on his bald, shiny head—something that he deserved a thousand times over.
The fat leader of the guild was decked out more richly than the peacocks in a sultan’s courtyard. The dark brown suit of fine velvet was fit for a king, not the owner of three chins and a pair of little rat’s eyes drowning in fat. I found Markun repulsive. He was a slug who had managed to crush the once beautiful and all-powerful Guild of Thieves under his own vast carcass through crude deception.
There was a time when we could still pass each other by on the narrow path of our personal interests and Commissions, but now the day had arrived when the path was too narrow for both of us.
There was a man in black sitting opposite Markun, with his back to me. It was Paleface, of course. They were talking about something and the killer began waving his hands about in nervous irritation, but Markun took no more notice of him than a gkhol would take of a well-gnawed shinbone.
“What are you so nervous about, Rolio?” asked Markun.
“I’m not nervous!” Paleface hissed. “I’m just saying that I don’t like all this.”
“What don’t you like about it?” The argument seemed to have been going on for some time already, and Markun was beginning to get irritated.
“The buyer. How did he find out that you had the Horse? And where would he get so much money from?”
“What difference does that make to you? I don’t think Gozmo would dare try to trick me. And as for the buyer—that’s not our concern,” Markun laughed.
“You’re right about that,” Paleface muttered, getting up off his chair.
At last I was able to get a look at his face. Several burns and a mass of scratches made Paleface look like a visitor from the next world. It was not so easy to look handsome after suffering the effects of Roderick’s fireball. And his arm was still in a sling—it would be a long time before he forgot that shot from Bolt, may he rest in the light.
“It’s not our concern! It’s your concern! Our common acquaintance gave you the Commission for the Horse. And you’ll be the one to pay with your stupid head for deciding to sell the Horse to someone else and bypass the client!”
“And I seem to recall that our common acquaintance ordered you to kill Harold, but the thief is still alive, while you look like something that’s come back from the dead. And I also remember very well that my best men never came back from your adventures. Two of them never got out of that nameless alley and another three were finished off by the guards in the library. And I’d like to ask what in the name of Darkness those guards were doing there in the first place. And then another three of my most experienced men disappeared somewhere in the Forbidden Territory. And they were all sent by you! Under cover of my name!”
“I didn’t send your jackals into the Forbidden Territory,” said Paleface, interrupting Markun. “The Master’s servant did that.”
“Oh, don’t give me that, Rolio!” Markun said with a dismissive gesture. The expression on the face of the fat master of the guild was one of frank disdain for the world in general and for Paleface in particular. “You were the one who dragged me into your business with the Master. If only I’d known, I’d never have got involved.”
“Come on, Markun, you were serving the Master long before I ever came to Avendoom. So don’t go hanging all your dead men round my neck! All I did was remind you that you can’t just go on taking money for nothing; it’s time to repay our lord with some real service. And you have no right to complain.” Paleface snorted as he sat back down at the table. “You’ve had more than enough gold.”
“Gold won’t save my head,” Markun muttered.
“Nothing will save your head if you sell the Horse!” Paleface growled, beginning to lose patience.
Several of Markun’s minions looked round from their mugs of beer to see what was going on at their chief’s table.
“I’ve no intention of selling the Horse!” Markun snapped, slamming his plump hand down on the table. “We’ll just take the money and leave the buyer floating under the piers! Do you really think I’m stupid enough to give that Stone to anyone except the servant of the Master? You’d do better to handle your own assignment and put an end to our common problem at long last.”
“I’ll put an end to him,” Paleface growled in a more conciliatory tone. “Harold won’t be in this world for much longer.”
“That’s what you said five days ago,” Markun said with a repulsive giggle. “I’m beginning to have doubts about your professional skill.”
“You’d do better to think about how to keep the Horse safe and sound until the client comes to collect it.”
“What’s so hard about keeping it safe?” Markun asked with sincere surprise. “I keep it with me all the time.”
The head of the guild snapped his fingers casually and one of his bandits immediately placed the Horse of Shadows on the table.
I’ve always said that the Doralissians are rather strange creatures. Only they could have called something that looks like the phallus of some ancient pagan god the Horse of Shadows. If that’s a Horse, then I’m the emperor of the Lakeside Empire.
“Hey, Gozmo!” Markun shouted across the entire room. “Where’s this buyer of . . .”
