Shadow Chaser Read Free

know, Harold-Barold, I reckon that pilfering purses with coppers in them from the pockets of halfwits is better than the Commission you have now.”
    “Go and annoy Hallas,” I snarled.
    Kli-Kli had pricked me in a sore spot. Okay, there was no point in crying over spilt milk. I’d accepted the Commission—I must have been slightly insane at the time—and now there was no way back.
    “Harold!” Lamplighter shouted, jerking me out of my moody reverie. “What’s got you so miserable?”
    “That’s just his usual state of mind,” the king’s jester interrupted arrogantly. “Our Dancer in the Shadows has been far too glum and gloomy recently.”
    “But then, someone else has been far too cheerful and chatty,” I muttered. “Make sure you don’t regret your blathering later.”
    “Loudmouth’s the one who blathers,” Kli-Kli retorted. “All I ever do is speak the truth.”
    “And you also quote the prophecies of goblin shamans who guzzled magic mushrooms,” I teased the jester. “All their prophecies about a Dancer in the Shadows aren’t worth a rotten sparrow’s egg.”
    “Too late to get stubborn now. You accepted the title of Dancer in the Shadows, just like in the prophecy. The Bruk-Gruk has never lied!” Kli-Kli began testily, but then he realized I was only teasing him and lapsed into offended silence.
    Kli-Kli’s weak point is his beloved goblin Book of Prophecies, which he knows from cover to cover. And now, you see, I wasn’t Harold the thief any longer, but a walking prophecy, who was destined to save the kingdom and the entire world. Yeah, sure. If I had my way, I’d rob it, not save it.
    “Kli-Kli,” Arnkh put in, “why don’t you tell us if this little book of yours by the shaman Tru-Tru…”
    “Tre-Tre, not Tru-Tru, you great ignoramus!” the goblin interrupted the bald warrior resentfully.
    “Written by the shaman Tre-Tre,” Arnkh went on as if nothing had happened, but the goblin interrupted him again: “The great shaman Tre-Tre!”
    “All right. Written by the great shaman Tre-Tre. So, is there anything in it apart from your beloved prophecies?”
    “For example?” The native son of the Border Kingdom seemed to have succeeded in catching the goblin off balance.
    “Well, for example, a cure for a gnome’s toothache?”
    Hallas, who had drawn level with our little group again, heard the conversation and pricked up his ears, although he tried to pretend he wasn’t interested at all.
    Kli-Kli spotted this and gave one of his now-watch-what-happens smiles—a clear sign that he was about to play one of his rotten tricks.
    The jester paused so theatrically that Hallas started squirming in the saddle with impatience. When the gnome’s fury was just about to reach the boiling point, the goblin spoke.
    “It does.”
    “And what is it?” I asked, tugging desperately at my bridle and trying to steer Little Bee out of the space between Kli-Kli and Hallas.
    As sure as eggs were eggs, the goblin had some rotten trick in mind, and I had no wish to be caught in the line of any heavy objects when the bearded gnome decided to spill the royal jester’s blood
    “Oh!” Kli-Kli declared in a mysterious voice. “It’s a very effective remedy. In principle it could have been applied at the very beginning of Hallas’s ailment, and the tooth would have stopped hurting immediately. I swear by the great shaman Tre-Tre’s hat, Harold, it’s the truth.”
    “Then why didn’t you say anything?” the gnome roared, setting half the street fluttering in alarm.
    Uncle turned round and waved his fist at us, then pointed in Alistan’s direction and ran the edge of his hand across his throat.
    “Cut the clowning, Kli-Kli,” Marmot said good-naturedly. “People are looking.”
    “All right, not another word,” the goblin promised solemnly, gesturing as if he were locking his mouth shut.
    “What d’you mean, not another word?” the gnome asked indignantly. “Deler, tell that