1
The day had started out warm, and now the cows, lazily chewing their cud, were sheltering from the midday heat in the shadow of a large oak. A yearling calf, tormented by gadflies, dragged himself to the river and slipped in, thereby ridding himself of the feisty insects. His dappled mother was trying to warn her son away from the water with a plaintive moo, but he was far too occupied with the water and ignored her summons.
Pork sighed disappointedly and set aside his homemade reed pipe. What kind of music could he make when there was such a racket? The damned cow just wouldnt quiet down. He should drag the calf out of the river, but he was feeling lazy. There was no point. Hed just wander back in again.
The day seemed infinitely long. His jug of milk was half empty, but his bread remained untouched. He had no desire to eat. Or work, for that matter. While the village boys fished for trout and played at being knights, why did he have to keep an eye on the cattle? But the children had no desire to include the overgrown village idiot in their games. Pork didnt know why, and as a result he was horribly offended, not understanding the reason everyone always laughed at him and twirled their fingers around their foreheads.
Yawning, he was about to nap for another hour, since the shade of the bushes he was stretched out under wouldnt go away for a while yet, when he noticed four riders appear on the road in the distance. They crossed the river unhurriedly, making their way along the sturdy wooden bridge constructed by the villagers, and, passing by the standing stone (standing stones are set at all crossroads. According to legend, they keep evil from finding its way into peoples homes), headed off toward the village.
Pushing out his lower lip so that saliva dripped down onto his shirt, Pork watched the strangers avidly.
People wishing to visit Dog Green were always few and far between. The village was located in the foothills of the Boxwood Mountains in the middle of the densely thicketed Forest Region. People rarely came here.
The riders did not resemble the Viceroys tax collectors in the slightest. The tax collectors wore gorgeous black-and-white uniforms, which Pork really wished he could try on, but these men were wearing simple leather jackets and linen shirts.
“And theres no herald with a trumpet,” muttered the half-wit under his breath. “Nope, nope, nope—the Viceroys soldiers dress far better.” True, these men had swords as well. Sharp ones. Much sharper than his fathers knife, which Pork had cut himself on. Oh, that had hurt so much! And one of them even had a crossbow. Probably a real one, too. That would leave quite a hole. If Pork had such a crossbow, no one would laugh at him. Nope. The girls would love him. Yes, they would. And the horses these fellows had were much better than the villagers. Horses like that could trample you right down, and not even a smudge would be left behind. They were knights horses. When Pork left the village, he too would become a knight. Hed rescue virgins. But these fellows werent knights. Where were the multicolored coats of arms, the plumes and the chain mail? Every knight should have them, but they didnt. If they were knights, they were doing it wrong. Yes, they were. But maybe they were bandits? No, they didnt look like that either. Even the dimmest five-year-old whose parents wouldnt let him go off into the forest hunting for mushrooms knew that bandits didnt travel the road so boldly—otherwise the soldiers of the Viceroy would hang them from the nearest aspen tree. And of course, bandits wouldnt have such splendid horses. Plus, all bandits were wicked, cowardly, filthy men with rusty knives in their teeth. These fellows were not like that. Anyway, what would bandits have to do with the village? The locals around here grew nothing valuable. Except perhaps old Rozas turnips, which the daring little people, as his father called them, try to steal.
Pork imagined how a horde of unwashed little men with overgrown beards, hatchets gripped in their teeth, grunting, would scale the wicker fence and, looking around fearfully, dig up the turnips from the vegetable patch of that wicked old grandmother. And she would stand on the porch, shaking her walking stick and giving them the tongue-lashing of their lives, calling down curses on their ugly heads. And then she would throw her stick at them, the old viper. She threw it at Pork once, when he broke her fence. What a bump on the head that was. His father simply told him that it was time for him to wise up. But that didnt happen. Just as before, everyone laughed at him, called him a half-wit, and didnt let him play with them. Well, what of it—he didnt really want to, truthfully.
One of the riders noticed the cowherd and said something to his companions. They left the road and made their way toward him over the field.
At first Pork was terrified. He wanted to take to his heels, but running away—that meant leaving the cows unattended. And of course, theyd scatter. Hed have to search for them again. And Choir would wander into the ravine again, and hed get stuck there unable to get her out. Hed catch hell from his father. There was nothing for it; hed get either the nettles or the whip. He wouldnt be able to sit on his fanny for a week. So there was no sense in running. And anyway, its a long way to the forest. And those armed bulls were on horseback. They could catch him and give him a good drubbing. And besides, he still didnt know why they were coming. But his father wouldnt pat him on the head if he lost the cows. And so, making the choice between the clear threat and shadowy danger, Pork decided to stay put and see what would happen.
The riders came up to him, drawing in their reins.
“Are you from the village, friend?” asked the oldest of the four. Lean and tall with a pointed face and deep-set, clever eyes, the man regarded Pork without malice. Cordially and just a bit mockingly.
No one had ever called Pork “friend” before. The cowherd liked the way it sounded.
“Uh-huh.”
“Youre from Dog Green?”
“Yeah.”
“Is it far?”
“No. Not very, sir. Its just beyond that hill. As soon as you get to the top, youll see it.”
“Weve finally made it,” said another of the men, sighing with obvious relief. His face was pitted by smallpox. “Its well hidden, eh, Whip?”
“Did you doubt the words of Mols, Bamut?” chuckled the one who had called Pork a friend.
A third rider, the youngest one, answered that question with a grunt. Pork disliked him right away. He was sullen and wicked. A man like that would have no problem boxing you on the ears. And then hed laugh.
“Is there an inn in the village?”
“In the middle of nowhere? What kind of inn would they have not ten leagues from the mountains?” snapped the youth, who had blue eyes.
“We have an inn,” replied the cowherd, offended. “Its right by the road after you go through the village. Its quite large. With a red chimney. They have tasty meat pies. And shaf. My father gave me some to try once. But why have you come here? And are your swords real? Will you let me hold one? And your horses, they are Rudessian stock, right? Are they yours? They are like knights horses. Ill soon be a knight, too. Theyre fast, arent they? You arent knights, by any chance, are you?”
“Hold on, hold on!” laughed the lean rider cheerfully. “Not all at once. Youre in quite a hurry there, friend. Lets start at the beginning, I beg you. Are those cows yours?”
“No. I look after them. Yeah.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
The cowherd pouted and looked at the man, offended.
He was mocking him. But he had called him his friend. He thought they were friends.
The man laughed once more. The other three riders remained silent and didnt even smile. They seemed completely uninterested in the conversation.
“And how many households are there in the village?”
“A lot.” Pork showed all the fingers on his hands. “Six times as many.”
“And youre literate. You can count,” the man said respectfully.
“No,” sniveled the half-wit. “My father showed me. I cant count on my own.”
“Tell me, friend, do you have any new people in the village?”
“Are you talking about the Viceroys people?”
“Well, maybe. Tell me about them.”
“They came here at the beginning of spring. They were handsome. Important. And they had horses. Now were just waiting until the end of fall. There havent been any others. Its just us. Only the loggers come.”
“The loggers?” asked the man with the pockmarked face.
“Yeah,” sad Pork, nodding hastily, pleased that he could carry on such an important conversation. “They chop down our trees and then float them down the river to Alsgara. They say they make really great boats from our trees. Oh, yeah! The best of all boats. They float. Yes.”
“And what about these loggers?”
“I dont really know, sir. They come here in the summer. They live in mud huts beyond Strawberry Stream. Theyre mean. Once they beat me up and ruined my new shirt. Then I caught it again from my father, because of the shirt. Yeah. But they leave in the fall. They dont want to stay here for the winter. They say that the roads get blocked with snow. You cant get out until the end of spring.”
“I told you, its a swamp,” spat the young one.
“No. The mountains arent far from here. And they say that there are the Gates of Six Towers, though Ive never seen them. And to get to the swamp, you have to go through the forest for several days. Theres a bog there, you know. You go there, youll fall right in.”
“Its unlikely our friend would be found in the company of loggers,” said the short man who looked like a ferret and had kept silent so far.
“Id have to agree with you. But tell me, friend, do you know everyone in the village?”
Pork screwed up his eyes in suspicion. These men were strange. Theyd asked him about the mean loggers, and then again about the village. And about the Viceroys soldiers.
“Dont be afraid.” The lean man tried to appease him with a smile. “Were just looking for our friend. Hes about this old.” He pointed to the man afflicted with pox. “He has light hair, gray eyes; he rarely smiles and can shoot better than anyone from the saddle. Do you know such a man?”
“Gnut shoots better than anyone from the saddle, but he has black hair and one of his eyes isnt even there at all.”
“He has a woman with him, too. Shes tall and beautiful. She has long blond hair and dark blue eyes. So, what do you think? Are there any people like that in your village?”
“There might be,” said the cowherd reluctantly. “I dont really have the time to remember. Ive got to herd the cows. Or Father will cuss me.”
“I hope this will jog your memory.” The rider threw Pork a coin.
Pork caught it and his jaw dropped. The silly bear had thrown him a whole sol! Now he could buy himself sweets and eat them where no one could see. Pork wouldnt share them with anyone. Thatd show them, calling him an idiot! The cowherd bit into the coin and, quickly, so they wouldnt be able to take it away, hid it in his bag.
“You described them really well. Thats Pars and his wife, Ann. I recognized them right away.”
The men exchanged looks.
“Where can we find them?”
“Oh, thats really easy. He lives just outside the village, not far from the blacksmiths shop. Youll see his house right away. It has little ponies with wings etched on the gates. Theyre pretty. I want some. If you go through the whole village, youll see it.”
“Has he been living here for a long time?”
“I cant remember.” The half-wit scrunched up his brow, strenuously trying to recall. “A long time.”
“Take it easy, friend,” said the lean rider.
The strangers turned their horses. When they got to the road Porks shout carried to them.
“Hey, misters! Its just that Pars cant shoot from the saddle. Hes a carpenter!”
* * *
“Did you need to coddle him so, Whip?” petulantly asked the rider that Pork had dubbed young. “Why did you need to have that conversation with a half-wit? We could have asked anyone we met in the village.”
“Its so kind of you to try to teach me. Anyone else we met wouldnt be an idiot. You couldnt have bribed them for a sol. You dont know villagers. They wont budge if theyve decided they dont like your face, and then theres nothing you can do.”
“We could tickle them with our knives.”
“Well, then you would be the idiot, Shen,” sneered Whip. “Four against how many? This is not the outlying towns of Alsgara with our timid peasants. The locals here wouldnt jump at the sight of your blade and fawn over you. These places are savage. Every man can stand for himself. Theres enough axes and clubs around here that you wont know what hit you. No little knife would save you.”
“Well, then we could just check every home ourselves. Wed find him somewhere.”
“Oh yes, very simple. Sixty households. How much time do you think wed need to get that done?”
“An hour? Maybe two?”
“Exactly. And if we encounter some kind soul who runs off and warns him about our arrival? And he decides he has nothing to say to us? What then? Do you want to go to Mols and offer excuses?”
This last argument completely drained the young man of his desire to quarrel. He petulantly pursed his lips and fell silent.
In the meantime the riders had crested the hill and caught sight of Dog Green. The village was situated along both banks of a narrow river. The idiot had led them astray—there were far more than sixty houses. To the right of the road was a small graveyard, and just a bit farther on, a clear-cut area. On the farther shore there was a field, upon which encroached the gloomy wall of impenetrable forest. The village, lost on the edge of the province, had been carved out in a circle from the forests, low hills, and numerous ravines.
Whips team had taken a long time to get here from Alsgara. These last few days they had been forced to sleep beneath the open sky. For leagues around there was not a single inn. They had completely left behind tolerable food, wine, and women. All they had for company were mosquitoes and gadflies. Thank Melot that they hadnt encountered any forest spirits or goves (a species of lower demon) in the wilderness. They had kept to the road. True, even though no evil creatures had crawled out of the depths of the forest, wild animals had.
“Damn, but that blessed idiot didnt say which shore we should search for our carpenter,” said Bamut, the one who was ravaged by smallpox.
“Well find him. The tasks almost done. Weve reached the end.” Whip urged his horse forward.
His companions followed him without hesitation. They rode past the graveyard, which didnt even have a fence around it. They passed by a well, where two peasant women were cursing at each other, arguing over who would draw water first. And then they were in the western part of the village.
They were being eyed warily. Rarely were outsiders seen here, especially ones on horseback. But no one questioned them.
The riders found the inn quickly. The building stood out from the rest. It was large with a red chimney and ornamental doors. The innkeeper, having caught sight of potential lodgers, practically choked on his shaf. His eyes went so wide that Whip began to fear that he had suffered a stroke.
Whip had no doubt there would be spare rooms.
“We rarely have visitors here,” hurriedly muttered the innkeeper as he pocketed the soren (a large gold coin) hed received from the shortest of his guests. “Come in, please. Usually people just ride straight through to Elnichi Ford. Were out of the way here. Do you wish to eat something? We can get everything ready quickly, in no time at all.”
“How do you even make a living? If you have so few guests, I mean?”
“There hasnt been anyone since midspring. We only survive thanks to the loggers. They come to drink shaf and wine. But only in the evenings. Right now theres no one here. There will be nothing to bother you. Come in, come in. Thank Melot, who sent you to my modest hearth!”
“Is there a blacksmith in your village? My horse has a limp,” said Whip casually.
“Of course. Old Morgen. Go down the road, good sir. Then take a right, ride through the square until you get to the edge of the village. Right by the woods. You cant miss it.”
Shen and Bamut exchanged significant glances and once again climbed into their saddles. Whip and the short one, who answered to the name of Midge, followed their example.
“Prepare rooms and supper for us,” the eldest of the four said over his shoulder. “Well be back soon.”
The innkeeper hastened to assure the benevolent gentleman that everything would be done to the best of his ability, and then he ran off to execute the order. It didnt even enter his head to wonder why all four were going to the blacksmith when only one of their horses was lame.
* * *
“According to the half-wit, hes not far from the blacksmith.”
“If he wasnt having us on,” remarked Shen.
Whip chuckled. The kid was hoping that the fool had led them astray. That would indeed be an excellent confirmation that his commander had made a mistake.
In his dreams.
Whip didnt really understand why Mols had found it necessary to break up their tried and true threesome with a fourth. Shen was far too green to even be able to think. He acted first, and only afterward did he perceive the consequences. He was foolish. It wouldnt be long before he died as a result.
“If he was having us on, Ill go back and toss him in the river,” replied Whip, trying not to show his annoyance. “Everywhere you go, youll find an idiot whos willing to sell out the people closest to him.”
They slowly rode along the street, attentively looking around. From under a fence a dirty, shaggy hound shot out with a high-pitched yipping. It didnt dare run after the horses, but it hurled invective at the riders until they had disappeared from its sight.
“Looks like we found it.” Midge nodded toward the gates. “There are the ponies.”
In point of fact, thin-legged horses with swans wings were carved on the wooden doors. It was the house they were searching for. It was large, bright, and built out of pine logs.
“Well, you see there, Shen,” said Whip with a smile. “Seems you should trust people sometimes. Including idiots.”
The young man just twisted up his lips in response.
“Bamut, stay here. Keep an eye on the horses,” ordered the leader of the team.
“Damn, but what if he slips out through the back?”
“You have such a bad opinion of our friend.”
“Time changes people. Hey! Damn! Leave the crossbow!”
This last was directed at Shen, who was reaching for the weapon that was hanging off his saddle.
“Why should I?” he asked uncomprehendingly.
“Do as youre told,” said Whip, in support of his comrade. “We came here to have a chat. Just a little chat. That thing could ruin everything.”
“Youre not afraid, are you, boys?”
“Its none of your business what were afraid of and what were not.” Midge edged into the conversation. “Its your job to keep your mouth shut.”
Shen had been getting on the shorter mans nerves for a while now. It was highly probable that sooner or later they would have a serious dustup and after the fight one of them would never get up again. Whip would put his money on Midge. He was experienced, cruel, and cunning, and he knew his business well. Only Mols knew how many souls that diminutive assassin had sent to Melots bosom.
“Both of you shut up!” yelled Whip, seeing that the young man was not holding the crossbow as casually as before. “You can sort out this stupid quarrel when we get back to the city, if you still wish. But right now we have a common cause. Theres no time for getting into a knife fight. Im telling you right now, if you grapple with each other, youll be booted out of the guild faster than Mols can think of your names. Do I make myself clear, you blockheads?”
“Yes,” said Midge, taking his hand from his knife. “I got carried away.”
“I understand,” agreed Shen easily, handing over the crossbow to Bamut.
“Then lets do what we came here for. Ill be the one to talk. No sudden moves. Shen, that means you.”
“Yeah, I get it! I get it. Why are you talking to me like Im a child?”
“Because chopping cabbage with a sword is one thing, but talking shop with a gardener is something completely different.”
Having said this, Whip opened the gate and walked into the yard, immediately catching sight of the man he was looking for.
Naked to the waist, the man was chopping firewood. Shen had heard about him from his associates, but he turned out to be completely different than hed imagined. Hed thought he would be sturdy and strong, with large pectorals and massive fists. The man who was known as Gray in Alsgara did not correspond to the image created in Shens imagination at all. The man was not burly. And he didnt seem to be a hulking giant capable of decapitating a five-year-old bull with one swipe. There was nothing threatening about him. He was lank and wiry. He didnt have a single bit of excess fat, nor of bulging muscle, on him.
Shen had known people like this before. They didnt use force so much as the energy stored in the bands of sinew in their arms. A tough fellow. And probably as durable as a hundred Blazogs (a race of swamp dwellers). The heavy axe was practically flying through the air.
Just then the man stopped chopping and saw his guests. He narrowed his gray eyes and with a casual motion changed his grip on the axe. This gesture did not go unnoticed by the riders. Shen stiffened and slowed his pace. Midge quickly glanced to the side. Only Whip remained calm. He smiled; only his alert eyes spoke to the fact that the leader was drawn as tight as a loaded crossbow. He continued until he was five yards from the master of the house and then Molss messenger stopped.
“Hello, Gray.”
The man stayed defiantly silent for a moment, and then he replied, “Hello, Whip.”
“How are things going?”
The carpenter grimaced angrily.
“Not bad. Until today.”
Whip preferred not to notice the grimace on their hosts lips.
“Youve settled down really well. The wilderness, the forest, the river, no city noise. And your house is excellent.”
“I cant complain,” came the dry answer. “What brings you here?”
“Business, of course. Can we talk?”
“Thats strange. I thought that was exactly what we were doing.”
“You wont invite us in?”
“Its messy in there,” he replied sullenly.
Whip chuckled. “Six years have gone by, and you havent changed a bit. You still hate having company.”
“Seven, to be exact. Hey there, Midge.”
“Hi, Ness. I didnt think Id ever see you again. You disappeared quite cunningly.”
Their host shrugged his shoulders.
“Seeing as you found me, not quite as cunningly as Id hoped. I suppose that Bamut is waiting outside the gates?”
“You know him. The man has no love for house calls. Mols sends his regards.”
“Good old Mols,” drawled the carpenter. “Its hard to escape from him.”
The master of the house took a step to the right and forward, going around the split wood, and Midge echoed his movement, taking a step backward. Unlike Shen, the diminutive assassin preferred to keep a distance between himself and their unsociable host. For the first time since the beginning of their conversation, Ness smiled knowingly. Then he planted his axe in the stump and dragged his fingers through his flaxen hair.
The tension lessened slightly.
Just then a tall young woman appeared on the porch. Her light, almost-white hair was held back in a tight braid, and she was wearing a long black skirt and a linen tunic. When she saw the strangers, her dark blue eyes flashed with rage, and her thin lips pressed into a straight line. A shadow ran across her face and Whip involuntarily reached for his pouch. He had a talisman blessed by a priest of Melot in there. He knew that the amulet would be of no help against her, but the foolish superstition proved stronger than his reason. Only at the very last moment did he restrain himself and remove his hand.
Now he had to keep an eye on both the man and the woman.
“Good day, Layen.”
She ignored the greeting. She looked at her husband. He looked back at her in return. It seemed as if they were speaking with their eyes. Layen turned around and went back inside. Just before she closed the door, she cast the unwanted guests one last warning glance.
Midge let out a relieved breath. Hed been holding his breath the entire time the woman was on the porch.
“Didnt you used to work as a threesome?” Ness asked Whip.
“That we did,” said the leader wryly, showing just how pleased he was with the circumstances that had foisted a fourth upon him.
“All right, tell me why youve come,” said their host, pulling on his shirt.
“Mols sends his regards.”
“Theres no way Id believe that he sent you all this way just for the sake of a greeting.”
Whip frowned.
“Not just for that. He sent me to tell you that they are offering five thousand sorens for your head. And just as much for Layen.”
The carpenter remained unmoved. “Are you really here to aggravate me and tell me that Mols is that hard up?”
“No, he simply wanted to warn you. In remembrance of your old friendship.”
“Thats very kind of him. How did he find me?”
“How should I know? A little birdie whispered it in his ear. Im told what to do—nothing more. The reward was offered about two weeks ago. There was a rumor that you were alive. Its pretty clear that they want to make a trophy out of you. And you must agree that it will be easy to find idiots willing to do anything for that kind of money.”
“Quite so. If theres one thing in this world of ours that will never change, its idiots. Midge, relax and get your hand off your knife.”
“Sorry; habit,” he apologized hastily, and as evidence of his peaceful intentions even stepped back toward the gates.
“So you understand that these whispers of so much money have not gone unnoticed. Your life is at risk.”
“What else did my old friend wish to convey?”
“Not much else. It was Joch Threefingers who named the price.”
Fire flashed in his gray eyes. And then it instantly faded.
“Well. Thank you for the news. Give Mols my thanks.”
“Actually, hed much prefer that you gave it to him personally.”
“Ive not been missing Alsgara so much that I would return.”
“Its dangerous here—all the rats know you. Dont flee. Were staying at the inn. Well be there for five or six days. If you change your mind, let us know.”
“An honorary escort?”
“Something like that. Take it easy.”
Without saying a further word, Whip walked to the gates. Midge was the last to exit. True to form, he left walking backward.
Copyright © 2005 by Aleksey Pehov
English translation copyright © 2014 by Aleksey Pehov