11. Against all odds, financiers hire hitmen and Little Prince is a noble

I spent the first five days on my pallet without getting up. I ate very little, slept a lot, and was delirious in my dreams. On the third day, a person had visited the Den; it was neither Rolg nor Yal, but I was not sure what he was like or even if he really existed. My mind was dancing like a feather in a hazy, muffled inferno. On the fourth day, Yal leaned over to me with a wet towel and said in a tense tone:

“Enough, sari: stop creating illusions. Undo them at once. This is dangerous.”

I blinked and realized that I had indeed drawn the face of my nakrus master floating right in front of me, on the ceiling, with his magical green smiling eyes.

“Undo it,” Yal insisted. “Right now. You don’t want anyone to see it, do you? Please.”

Reluctantly, I listened to him, and with some sorrow, I saw my master’s skeletal face fade away. I almost heard him say, “What? You haven’t found the ferilompard bone yet, Mor-eldal?”. Yalet sighed.

“Thank Spirits… Listen, sari. Harmonies can be dangerous if you lose control of them. Remember what I told you? There are people who have lost their minds by using them, people who have ended up very badly. Harmonies are dangerous,” he repeated. He passed the wet towel over my sweaty forehead again and, after a pause, gave me a slight smile. “Rest. Think of nothing and rest.”

On the sixth day, I felt much better, but I did not leave the house, nor on the seventh or eighth day, because Yal forbade it. He was away during the day, working as a proofreader in a printing shop. Once, in the autumn, I had asked him what he worked for if he could get rich by stealing jewels, and he had answered that greedy thieves always end up getting caught, that wealth does not bring happiness and, in short, that he preferred to earn his bread honestly.

So, when I wasn’t chatting with Rolg, I spent my time alone, playing cards, singing, or reading a little book that Yal had bought me using the five siatos he earned in exchange for the salbronix pearls. It was called Alitard, the Blessed Valley Man, and his Lamb Destiny, and it told the adventures of a young shepherd from the Valley of Evon-Sil: he crossed the entire Prospaterra, from the Northern Lands to Doaria, fleeing Osmiron, an evil charlatan, who wanted to steal his lamb because it was able to speak Drionsan. Finally, the shepherd managed to trap him in a boat on the Sea of Ash, and the villain ended his miserable life in the mouth of a dragon. Good Alitard returned to the valley where he married a young shepherdess, and they lived happily together, close to Destiny, the lamb who could speak. I loved the story. I decided that I, too, would like to have a lamb to defend. Then I thought of Manras and Dil, and I said to myself: but I already have two cronies to defend! Except that it wasn’t exactly the same, because in the book, Alitard never got sick, everyone was kind to him except the bad guy, and he never left Destiny alone.

On the tenth day, in the morning, Yalet gave me an infusion, and as I drank it, he bit his upper lip, hesitated, and commented:

“I don’t know if you remember that, tonight, we steal the Wada. Tell me, if you think you’re not fully recovered…”

“Recovered? I’m fresh as a daisy!” I assured. “What’s a Wada?”

Yal watched me carefully as he replied:

“A sort of amulet of great and great value. It’s a gold sculpture full of precious stones. It hangs on a wall inside the Stock Exchange Building and, according to some, is something like the totem of financiers.”

“The Stock Exchange,” I repeated.

I knew where it was: it was near the Esplanade. Manras, Dil, and I always made a successful trip there with our newspapers. Well, “always”… at least in the fall, I corrected myself. Because in winter I could hardly go with them once or twice a week, and what I knew best now was the labyrinth of the Conservatory.

“And why are we going to steal this… Wada?” I asked. Yal grimaced, and I said, “Financiers are nail-pinchers too, right?”

Yal smiled and shook his head.

“Well… it so happens that the Black Daggers have our little enmities, too. Look, this whole thing has to do with a certain Mr. Stralb, the owner of the Stock Exchange Building. Many moons ago, this financier got in touch with Korther and offered him a job: it was about stealing compromising documents on a competitor. Korther refused. And the financier… well, he’s a nutcase. He got angry, he insisted, and faced with Korther’s refusals, he threatened to reveal information about our brotherhood: it was an idle threat, of course. Korther turned a deaf ear. And the financier was obstinate, thought he had discovered Korther’s true identity, and sent him a hitman.”

“A hitman?” I repeated, without understanding.

“An assassin,” Yal explained. I paled. “Fortunately, this alleged true identity was only one of many Korther had. He learned that a hitman was looking for him, he found him, he… er… threatened him, and the killer disappeared from Estergat overnight. After that, Korther warned the financier that, if he didn’t leave him alone, the Black Daggers would ruin his life. The guy may be rich, but Korther also has means, and more importantly, he has support. So, in the end, to make the threat clear and take revenge for the killer thing, Korther has hired us to help him steal the Wada. When they see that it’s gone from the Stock Exchange, there’s going to be a scandal bigger than the Patron Spirit. The financier will pull his beard off from shock,” he laughed.

I arched an eyebrow.

“Have you ever seen him?”

“The Wada? No, I never—”

“No, no, I’m talking about the financier. You say he has a beard.”

Yal rolled his eyes.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

“It’s an expression, sari. Even a lady can pull her beard off from shock.”

I laughed as I imagined it; he put a small package on the table and pushed it towards me.

“Butter biscuits!” he announced cheerfully. “So you can get your strength back,” he said, before standing up. “Well, I’m off. Normally I’d be back before eight. Rest well, sari.”

Rolg still hadn’t come out of his room, so Yal left without saying goodbye to him. That old elf was really a big sleeper.

As soon as I was alone, I took a biscuit from the packet, and after examining it for a few moments, I tasted it. I found it so good and so delicious that I devoured all ten of them in a “peace-and-virtue”.

After waiting a while and seeing that Rolg was not waking up, I went to look out the window and smiled broadly. The sky was blue, and the snow was already starting to melt. It was a perfect day to go out. I remembered Yal’s words and shrugged. Now I felt so energetic that I could have climbed a mountain. I would rest later. Running to my pallet, I put on my coat, cap, and boots. Rolg was getting all this stuff from the Hostel: apparently they kept clothes there for the Black Daggers in need. After checking that I still had the yellow feather and the sharp stone in my pockets, I rushed to the door and went out. I was careful not to slip on the snowy stairs, left the courtyard behind, trotted out of the Cats, and went up Tarmil Avenue. The weather was glorious, and it naturally encouraged me to poke around and zigzag from store window to store window and from sidewalk to sidewalk. When I reached the Esplanade, I recognized a tall, blond boy and called out to him:

“Garmon!”

The newsboy turned around, a pile of newspapers under his left arm.

“Oh, Sharpy!” he said, smiling. “I haven’t seen you in a while. Where have you been?”

“In bed, I got sick,” I explained.

“Damn! Just like my brothers: not one of them was spared, only me. But, thank Spirits, they are all fine now,” he assured. “Are you looking for your cronies?” I nodded, and he pointed to the Capitol. “I saw them go by there a little while ago. I think they were headed for the Grand Gallery.”

“Thank you, Garmon!” I said.

“Hey, Bard!” he called out to me as I was already running off. “Tell me a new word!”

I smiled. Garmon loved to hear me pull out words that I’d made up or that came straight from the depths of the Cat Quarter. This time, I threw him one from my nakrus master:

“Demorjed!”

The blonde arched an eyebrow.

“And what does that mean?”

“It’s a more stylish way to say isturbag!” I replied, laughing, and ran off towards the Grand Gallery.

I found my friends at the southern entrance. Facing the passers-by who came and went, Manras shouted at the top of his lungs:

“Clash in Tribella! The Estergatese! Sturgeons and Winged Serpents clash! The Estergatese! Clash in Tribella!”

I stopped, saw the little dark elf selling a paper, and crouched down to pick up some snow. I made a big ball. Manras saw me and opened his mouth to shout my name, but I put my index finger to my lips and, with a roguish smile, threw the snowball at Dil, who was busy scratching his head a little further away. It hit the Little Prince right in the neck, and I laughed and shouted:

“Ayo, children of the Spirits!”

Manras greeted me boisterously, and Dil welcomed me with another snowball that crashed into my face.

“Good mother!” I exclaimed, with a grimace that soon changed to a smile.

Snow fights reminded me so much of my past winters with my nakrus master…! Yes, although it may not have been easy to imagine, my master and I were great experts in snowball battles. Of course, he was harder to reach when he wasn’t wearing his cape. But by the time he picked up a ball, I had thrown three.

“Clash in Estergat!” Manras hawked. “Clash between Little Prince and Sharpy!”

We burst out laughing and went to sit on a low stone wall without snow, sitting on the newspapers so we wouldn’t freeze.

“What time did you start?” I asked.

“At six o’clock, as usual,” Dil replied.

Manras yawned and put his arms around his knees as his watchful green eyes looked at the people passing by.

“So, you got sick?” he said. “And the Nail-pincher cured you?”

I huffed.

“No. My cousin went to tell him I was sick. And apparently, he was sick too. My cousin says these things are contagious. I’m sure it was the painter who gave it to me,” I grumbled. “Say, have you guys ever been sick?”

“You bet, either in winter or spring, but every year,” Manras said. “Well, I dunno for the Little Prince, but when I found him last year, he was sick, that’s for sure.”

I arched an eyebrow, a thought suddenly running through my head.

“But haven’t you guys known each other forever?”

Both shook their heads, and I noticed a certain reserve on Dil’s face.

“Dil came last winter,” Manras explained. “I found him on my way back home after selling papers. He was all alone, and he’d caught one hell of a cold, so… I took him home. And my brother said, as long as he works hard, he can stay. So he stayed,” he concluded with a smile.

Dil shook his head affirmatively to confirm and said:

“Warok said he didn’t care if I was a devil as long as I made money.”

A sudden cold shiver ran through me, and I exhaled:

“Who?”

“My brother,” Manras translated.

I looked at him, bewildered.

“Your brother’s name is Warok? Mothers of the Light, I know a Warok. He’s a dark elf like you. And he has a friend named Tif.”

Manras grimaced.

“Well, it’s him.”

I snorted loudly. In the autumn, I had gone to see Warok five times in a tavern in the Labyrinth to give him nails to pay for the damage done by the green ink. One night, when I was returning to the Den, the Ojisary had blocked my way and I’d given in to his threats. Fortunately, the fifth time, he had said “get out of here”, without telling me to come back, and I had not returned.

“Blasthell,” I said. “And… do you guys like him?”

Dil darkened; Manras bit his lip and admitted:

“No.”

“Ah. Well, I don’t, either,” I admitted.

Manras looked at me with an unhappy face.

“He’s mean, you know,” he said.

I arched my eyebrows.

“Even to you guys?”

Manras nodded silently, and Dil darkened even more. I didn’t like their faces.

“And why do you stay with him then? You should…”

I fell silent. I was going to tell them to come with me to Rolg’s house, but I remembered in time that Rolg didn’t allow anyone who wasn’t a Black Dagger to enter. Maybe if I asked for his permission first… I should ask him.

“I can’t run away,” Manras replied. The little dark elf had looked down at his blue hands.

“And why is that?” I replied.

He shrugged and explained:

“Last summer, we ran away, and when my brother found me, he got very angry. He almost chased Dil away, but I told him that running away had been my idea. And it was. Dil never complains. Maybe it’s because he’s a noble.” Dil glared at him, and Manras assumed an innocent look. “What?”

Dil sighed.

“It was a secret, Manras.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone,” I assured him. “So your parents are noble?”

“Yes, but my mother isn’t here anymore, and my father doesn’t want me because I’m a devil. That’s all. And now I’m getting back to work,” he concluded. He stood up abruptly, picked up his papers, and walked away towards the entrance of the Gallery.

Manras looked at me with a worried expression, and affected as he was, I decided:

“We’d better not talk to him about this again.”

The little dark elf nodded, he went away to sell the papers, and I borrowed one. Standing on the low wall, like a statue of a learned reader, I began reading the articles with application. Thanks to Miroki Fal, I had learned to read in silence, though sometimes, I would say a few words and let out comments of surprise, boredom, or incomprehension.

“Bwah,” I said after a moment, pushing the paper aside. I jumped down from my pedestal and shouted, “The Estergatese! Armed robbery at the Port of Menshaldra!”

I sold my copy in a peace-and-virtue and, joining Manras, said to him:

“Talk about the robbery, not the Winged Serpents from Tribella: what interests people is what happens at home, believe me, these journalists don’t have a clue.”

And Manras, of course, listened to me.