Avendoom. We can reasonably expect to be back here in November or December. Provided we don’t run into trouble, naturally. Your Majesty, I need access to the Royal Library.”
I can read perfectly well.
“What on earth for?” the old magician asked, astonished.
“I don’t want to go blundering into Hrad Spein like some incompetent idiot. The Nameless One himself could lose his way in there. I need plans and old maps. At least for what they call the human section. Grok isn’t buried in the lower levels, is he?”
“No, his grave is on the eighth level.”
I breathed a quiet sigh of relief. That was one little piece of good news at least. Trying to enter the levels of the ogres was simple suicide. There was no way I would ever reach them alive. I’d be gobbled up somewhere along the way. But I could risk going down as far as the eighth level.
“That’s good. I think there must be old plans in the library?”
“Yes, there are,” said Artsivus with a nod, then hesitated for a moment before adding: “Only, Grok’s grave isn’t shown on them, I’m certain of that.”
“Why not?” Miralissa asked in amazement, distracted from her contemplation of the fragile goblet of wine.
“The eighth level may not be the twenty-eighth, but it was still not built by men. Or for men. No one must know who lives there and what dangers await.”
“I can’t believe the magicians of the Order left absolutely no records of Grok’s grave and the booby traps in Hrad Spein,” I said, starting to feel nervous. “They must be somewhere, surely?”
“They are.” The old man nodded and wrapped the woolen blanket around himself even more tightly.
“Where, then?”
Would you believe it! First they insist that I carry out a Commission and then they make things difficult by keeping secrets of their own.
“In the old Tower of the Order.”
“And where is the old Tower of the Order?” I had to drag every word out of the old man with red-hot pincers.
“Somewhere in the Forbidden Territory of the city.”
That was when the fanfare sounded in my head, announcing that now I was in a right royal fix.
4
THE ROYAL LIBRARY
I’d promised the king I would go back to the palace after a week, so now I had an entire seven days to prepare for the dubious undertaking of a journey to Hrad Spein. Very first thing the following morning I set out for the Royal Library on Grok Square.
Naturally, to go in through the central entrance would be an act of great insolence and an open challenge to every nobleman in the kingdom, and so I maneuvered through the bustling stream of townsfolk who were already up and hurrying about their business and made my way to the right side of the gray building, were there was a separate entrance for employees.
I walked up to the cast-iron door and knocked loudly. But as always happens, my modest personage was ignored in the most shameless fashion. After waiting for a couple of minutes, I hammered again, with redoubled strength. Silence again. Has everybody in there gone to sleep, then? I can easily believe it, there are never many visitors, especially since entrance is restricted to nobles, priests, and members of the Order. Simple folk have no need of books, they’re happy if they can manage to feed their families. I waited for a while and then knocked yet again, so loudly that the racket frightened the pigeons on the nearby roofs, and the startled flock went soaring up into the cloudless June sky.
Eventually a lock clicked, a bolt squeaked, the door opened a crack, and an old man peered out at me with a short-sighted, angry expression.
“What’s all the racket about, you hooligan?”
I didn’t say a word, just held out the king’s ring before the old man had time to slam the door in my face. He screwed up his eyes and peered closely at the circle of gold, then opened the door and stepped aside.
“Why didn’t you say so straightaway? Come in then, if you’ve nothing better to do at home.”
There was no point in arguing, so I walked into the library, and the old man rapidly slammed the door behind me.
“They’re always trying to get me! But I’m too smart for them!” The old man giggled and grinned gleefully, exposing the worn stumps of yellow teeth.
“Who are they?” I asked in an effort to patch things up with the caretaker.
“Ogres!”
Well, how about that? The old man’s touched. He’s gone completely round