The long table teetered. Someone sat down next to him. Egert did not raise his head right away; it was probably one of his fellow students who had stepped away from the noisy crowd so that he could drink his wine or have a bite to eat in relative peace. Meanwhile, Fox renewed his prancing jokes. Laughter filled the tavern, but Egert distinguished a quiet snicker coming from the man next to him.
He turned his face and looked at his neighbor. At first glance this strong young man seemed completely unfamiliar to him, but already in the next second Egert, chilled, recognized Fagirra.
Fagirra was sitting in the student tavern. Never in all the times Egert had been there had a single one of the robed men come in. Fagirra was dressed modestly and simply, similarly to any of Egert’s comrades. Freed from the ominous hood, he seemed even younger than his years, perhaps even the same age as Egert. No one was paying Fagirra any special attention. Resembling the others, he casually took a sip of something from a large tankard and amiably glanced at the stupefied Egert. Egert could just see his tattoo peeking out from under his sleeve; that tattoo marked him as a professional blade master.
Egert could think of nothing better to do than to pick up his own glass and also take a sip. Fagirra smiled. “Good health, my friend. On the eve of great trials, I am especially pleased to see you in such good health.”
Egert murmured an inaudible greeting. Fox, who had gathered the entire company of students around the platform, was being far too successful in his mockery: the jokes, each more wicked than the last, were all aimed at the Order of Lash. The students were roaring with laughter.
Fagirra listened attentively, and the somewhat absentminded, benevolent expression disappeared from his face: thus does an elderly teacher attend to the incoherent answer of an indolent student, already counting the number of whippings that he will administer to the schoolboy. Egert was horrified.
“I see that all those hours spent studying do not add to the youths’ wisdom,” breathed Fagirra. “Meanwhile, the time is nigh.”
“Nigh?” The word burst out of Egert, and he panicked immediately. “I mean to say … when…”
Once again, Fagirra smiled softly. “We know when. But this knowledge is intended for those who are with us. Are you with us, Egert?”
He felt a sudden, inexpressible desire to say yes. Not just to appease Fagirra, though he did desire that as well, but because a wild thought flashed through his head. What if this answer proves to be the first in a series of five? What if the Wanderer’s puzzle was connected with the Order of Lash?
“Well, Egert?” Fagirra sighed reproachfully. “Are you hesitating? On the eve of the End of Time, are you wavering?”
Fox had wrapped himself up in a tablecloth. He had fashioned a hood from its edge and was now pacing about the tavern, dismally nodding his head and occasionally mournfully raising his eyes to the soot-stained ceiling. Egert remained silent.
Fagirra shrugged his shoulders as if to say “what a pity.” With a blindingly quick movement, imperceptible to any onlookers, he placed his hand against Egert’s ribs. “Keep your seat, Egert. Hold still, for Heaven’s sake. Be calm.”
Egert tilted his eyes to the side. A slender, elegant stiletto with a tiny, dark drop of some unknown substance glistening on its very tip pressed gently into his side.
Egert could not remember the last time he had been seized by such utter, instinctual terror. The only reason he did not leap up with a howl was that his legs and arms quickly refused to serve him.
“This is not an instantaneous death,” said Fagirra in the same soft, calming tone. “It is lingering, Egert, lingering and hmm … unpleasant, yes? A single prick is sufficient, and the wound will not be large. Do I make myself clear?”
Egert sat still; he was as pale as sun-bleached bone. His blood pumped loudly in his ears.
“Now, pay attention, Egert. Were you with the dean when he heard of the End of Time?”
Egert’s throat had dried up; he could only nod.
“Good. What did Master Luayan say; what did he do?”
Horrified at himself, Egert squeezed out, “He left. He went to his study.”
“And what did he do in his study?”
Egert’s heart suddenly felt lighter: he realized that he did not know anything about this.
“What did he do in his study, Egert?”
Students were dancing around the room; Fox was twirling the pretty Farri, and in the midst of this lighthearted carousal both the murmuring voice of Fagirra and the drop of poison at the end of his elegant stiletto seemed utterly improbable.
“I don’t know,” whispered Egert. “I did not see.”
“You were asked to watch and listen, don’t you remember?” The tip of the stiletto was touching his shirt.
“No one saw. It would have been impossible. He locked the door.”
Fagirra sighed dejectedly. “That’s bad, very bad. But it reminds me: Did Master Luayan ever open his safe in front of you? Is it secured with a lock or with an enchantment?”
Egert’s memory traitorously presented him with a picture of the dean approaching one of the locked cabinets.
“With a lock,” he moaned, in order to have something to say.
“What’s inside? Did you see?”
None of the frolicking youths noticed either the stiletto or Egert’s pallor. Fox announced loud enough for all to hear that the time was approaching, the time when he would have to answer the call of nature. He left.
“No,” Egert gasped. “I don’t know.”
Fagirra suddenly stopped smiling: his face transformed from affectionate to rigid and cruel, like the executioner’s block. “Don’t you dare lie. Be very careful how you answer me: Is the dean planning to take any action in anticipation of the End?”
The heavy outer door flew against the wall with a crash. The scholarly youths all turned toward it in surprise.
First a foot in a jackboot stained with filth barged into the tavern, followed by an enormous gilded sword hilt, and then the rest of Lord Karver Ott entered; behind him tramped in two swords of ominous size, attached to two guards: Bonifor and the nameless one with the tiny mustache.
The One-Eyed Fly had not seen such visitors in quite a long time. All the drinkers eyed them silently, as if trying to determine what they were. Even Fagirra interrupted his interrogation and frowned at them.
Karver examined the students with round, slightly cloudy eyes: the newly minted lieutenant was drunk; however, neither Egert, hunched over in the dark corner, nor Fagirra, sitting very close to him, escaped the notice of his gaze.
“Ah!” exclaimed Karver loudly and joyfully. “Is this your lady friend?”
Everyone was silent; stomping his boots and dragging his heels with each step, Karver walked through the tavern and stopped opposite Egert and Fagirra, whose stiletto was concealed from the others’ eyes behind the massive table.
“There’s something I don’t quite understand,” drawled Karver thoughtfully, switching his gaze from Egert to Fagirra and back again. “Just who is whose girlfriend, eh? Bonifor”—he glanced back at his associate—“take a look at this: They’re sitting here like doves, snuggling up against each other.” He hiccuped and then continued, turning to his second companion, who in this way finally gained a name, “Dirk, make sure to keep an eye on that one. We wouldn’t want to make a widow out of Egert’s girlfriend, now, would we?”
Egert felt the poisoned blade reluctantly move away, and he breathed more freely.
“Hey, swordsmen!” The students had gathered in a dense mass, and the looks they were directing at the newcomers were far from affectionate. “Have you lost something? Do you need help finding it?”