Llewellyn didn't know this yet, and it was a warm and pleasant evening, so she was enjoying herself, sitting at a sidewalk caf‚ sipping summer wine. Her elvish ancestry was evident in her countenance and lean body, but some human ancestor had given her the gift of height and forgotten to stop giving. Had she been on her feet, Llewellyn would have stood only a few inches shy of six feet, a thoroughly absurd height for anyone with so much elvish blood in her veins, and it was more than enough to make her stand out in any crowd, which was something of an occupational problem for her. When you make your living by relieving people of their excess possessions, standing out is a bad thing.
Still, she was not currently on the City Watch's wanted list, and she hadn't greatly annoyed the Union of Thieves in several months. In short - not an appropriate phrase for Llewellyn - no one was after her, which was a state of affairs unusual enough to warrant a little celebration.
Then, to top it all off, she looked down and spotted a copper coin on the ground at her feet, which as everyone knows, is good luck, not that Llewellyn was at all superstitious. Just as the great bell in the town square began to chime the hour, she bent down to pick up the coin. Somewhere behind and above her, she heard a noise like 'thok.' Still bent over, with her head beneath the level of the table and her fingers closing on the coin, she looked back and up. A wickedly barbed bolt from a crossbow had buried itself in the wood right next to the space her head had vacated a scant second before.
With a great squawk of terror and dismay, Llewellyn leaped forward without bothering to straighten up first. Her chair flew backwards, slamming into another table. One of her flailing arms struck her own table and sent it tumbling sideways into a previously nonbelligerent group of dwarves while her wine glass flew into the air and drenched yet another of the caf‚'s unlucky customers. All in all, a fine result for three seconds worth of effort.
As these people rose to their feet and their voices rose in complaint, Llewellyn, hunched over at the waist, darted between, around and occasionally under other tables. More disturbed customers jumped to their feet, and Llewellyn, who had been screeching inarticulately the whole time, suddenly found herself shouting, "Fire!" She didn't know why she was shouting, "Fire!" She wasn't even entirely aware that she was doing it. Her body was working spastically, and her mouth apparently decided to join the act.
Hearing the cry, and hearing the wordless screams that filled in the spaces between the repeated word along with the rising noise from the disturbed patrons at the caf‚, people were beginning to rush out of the nearby buildings, forming a nice living shield behind and around Llewellyn that would make it very hard for whoever was trying to kill her to draw a bead on her. She decided this was a good thing which needed to be encouraged.
She redoubled her shouts and rode the rising tide of humanity to safety, eventually reaching the end of the block and turning the corner. At that point, with the solid bulk of buildings presumably between her and her attacker, Llewellyn closed her mouth, straightened up and ran. She had long legs and could, when sufficiently motivated, such as by the fear of imminent death, run very rapidly indeed. One of the unfortunate thing about running in a mindless state of panic, however, is that it rather precludes actually watching where you are going.
Llewellyn rounded another corner and spotted a figure in front of her. She just had time to notice that the person had a head of hair such a vivid shade of red that it could only have been intended by nature as a warning of some kind and then they collided.
But, no. They should have collided, but the figure skipped neatly out of Llewellyn's path, hands grabbed the front of Llewellyn's tunic, and she felt herself lift and spun and pressed into a wall, not with the bone jarring slam that she had anticipated but almost gently. Her eyes cleared, and she found herself looking down into another pair of eyes like chips of emerald about six inches below her own.
It took several seconds for the fact that this was no the assassin to sink in. It was a woman, lithe, muscular and graceful, dressed in scarred leathers and wearing a sword.
"Dana!" Llewellyn gasped.
"Do you have any idea what you--" Dana began.
"Try...me...kill..." Llewellyn gasped. It made more sense in Elvish, which was the language she used in an effort to get out the most information with the fewest syllables.
Another figure rounded the corner, running. He overran the two women and turned back, his right hand coming up with something curved and shining grasped in it.
Llewellyn opened her mouth and covered her face with her hands in the apparent belief that, if she couldn't see her attacker he couldn't hurt her, but Dana had begun to move as soon as the man had slowed and started his turn and, even as his hand lifted, her sword was clearing its sheath.
An instant later, the man was on the ground, weapon and hand alike lying some distance away from his body. Even as Llewellyn started to scream, Dana drove the hilt of her sword against the man's head and knocked him unconscious. She whirled, slapped Llewellyn once to shut her up and peered around the corner. There was no one coming. She looked the opposite direction. The street, which had been nearly empty before was now completely so. Blood will do that. Dana turned back to Llewellyn.
"Do you know who he is or why he tried to kill you?" she asked.
Llewellyn opened and closed her mouth several times and then simply shook her head.
"We need him, then," Dana said. She sliced a strip from the man's tunic - why ruin her own clothes for a stranger? - and used it as a tourniquet on his wrist. She frisked him and relieved him of several extremely nasty looking implements of destruction and then said, "Help me," to Llewellyn and hauled the man to his feet.
Reluctantly, Llewellyn edged closer and reached out a tentative hand.
"He's out!" Dana snapped, "Now come on before the Watch gets here."
Holding the man by the upper arms, they headed down the still empty street.
Dana and Llewellyn began to hustle the limp figure along. It would been easier to carry him by his arms and legs, but that would definitely excite the interest of the City Watch if they should pass by. Holding him this way, they might just get by.
They walked in silence for a moment, and then the two women looked past the man's sagging head to stare at each other. Simultaneously, they wrinkled their noses and then looked at the figure hanging between them.
"What is that?" Llewellyn asked. "Sour wine and overripe cheese?"
Dana, whose eyes were beginning to water, shook her head. "I was going to guess manure from a diseased goat," she gasped, trying not to breathe through her nose. "I never smelled anything like that in my life!"
"How far are we going to carry him?" Llewellyn asked.
"To the Pig and Swill," Dana said. "It's close."
"You want us to walk into a crowded tavern while carrying a deranged killer who's missing a hand and still bleeding?!" Llewellyn complained.
Dana shrugged. "We actually won't be that out of place at the Pig and Swill," she said.
Llewellyn started to shrug, then her grip slipped and the man started to tumble to one side. As Dana tried to hold him up, Llewellyn suddenly leapt away from him, pointing and stammering, "Guh guh guh," which wouldn't have made any sense even had it been in elvish.
"Llewellyn!" Dana snapped. "What are you doing?"
"Buh buh buh," Llewellyn explained, pointing at the back of the man's neck which was visible where his tunic had slipped.
The most satisfying curse word that Dana knew was a dwarvish one full of consonants and gutturals which was never ever used in polite company. After looking at the back of the man's neck, she said it three times in a row. She looked at Llewellyn. "Come on," she said. "Grab him and lets get moving."
Reluctantly, as if afraid that he might suddenly wake up and bite her, Llewellyn grabbed the man's arm and she and Dana began to move down the street as rapidly as they could. They turned into a side street when led them to a dark narrow lane known locally as Mugger's Alley. This opened up onto a narrow but well populated street right next to the a tavern with a large sign portraying a hog with its face shoved into a trough.
Still carrying their burden, Dana and Llewellyn pushed through the door and into the room beyond.
The Pig and Swill, was, as always, crowded. It was filled with people of all races, both sexes and various levels of hygiene (or the lack thereof). The rumble of conversation filled the room, occasionally punctuated by the thud of a fist on flesh as some debater, outscored in logic, attempted to make his point in a more direct manner. The furniture showed signs of frequent breakage and slightly less frequent repair. In one corner was a small wooden stage, currently occupied by a man playing the cittern and singing lewd songs. Two barmaids made their way through the crowd, alternately taking orders and swinging at patrons who were a little more friendly than the barmaids felt the situation warranted. Behind the bar were two extremely large men and a woman of about Dana's height with copper colored hair pulled back into a ponytail.
"Quin!" Dana called, as she and Llewellyn moved toward the bar.
The woman looked up and smiled. "Dana," she said. She nodded toward the stage. "Did you bring your lute?"
Dana shook her head. "Not today." She nodded toward the man she and Llewellyn were supporting. "Our friend had a little too much to drink and needs a quiet place to recuperate."
Quin's nose twitched. "Your friend reeks," she said. "You want a room?"
"Actually," Dana said, "I'm afraid that, after he wakes up, he'll make a little noise, and we wouldn't want to disturb your customers."
Quin looked out at the customers, three of which were currently trying to beat each other senseless while the rest egged them on and two men in the corner took bets on the outcome of the fight. "Yeah, they're sensitive to disturbances," she said drily. "How about the storeroom?"
"Perfect," Dana agreed.
"Yeah." Quin handed her a heavy key. "Here you go. Meanwhile, I'll get the floor cleaned up in case anybody comes in looking for you."
Dana and Llewellyn both looked down to see a trail of red droplets leading behind them to the door. "I appreciate it," Dana said.
"No problem."
Dana and Llewellyn ushered their companion through a curtain, through the kitchen beyond and out the back door to a courtyard. In the courtyard was a stout stone building with barred windows sealed by thick shutters.
Llewellyn took the key from Dana and examined it. It was highly unusual, with an engraved barrel and a peculiar arrangement of teeth. "Expensive lock," she said.
"They keep their stock in there," Dana said. "I don't think they want anyone to get in."
Llewellyn nodded, handed the key back to Dana and said, "Can you hold him for a minute?"
"We have the key, Llewellyn," Dana complained.
"I don't like using keys," Llewellyn told her. "It offends me as an artist."
"You said yourself this is a good lock," Dana said. "We don't want him to wake up."
"I've seen the key," Llewellyn said. "Thirty seconds."
Dana sighed. "Go ahead."
In actual fact, it took twenty-seven seconds before Llewellyn smiled and opened the door. On the other side was a short flight of steps leading downward into what was, for Dana, almost pitch darkness. "You take him down," she said. "I have something to take care of."
"What if he wakes up?" Llewellyn asked nervously.
"Tie him up before he does," Dana suggested.
Llewellyn did so. By the time Dana returned several minutes later, a lantern illuminated the room and the man was trussed so tightly to a chair that he could barely move. There was so much rope drawn around his chest, that Dana wasn't even certain he'd be able to breathe. He was, in fact, swathed in rope from shoulders to ankles.
Apparently he could breathe, however, as he was awake and glaring alternately at Llewellyn and then at Dana.
"Well?" he asked coldly.
Llewellyn, who hadn't realized that her prisoner was awake, jumped backward with a squeak of dismay.
"Well what?" Dana asked, just as coldly.
"Would you mind taking this tourniquet off of my wrist? I've stopped the bleeding."
Dana and Llewellyn looked at each other, and Dana shrugged. She had a hard time getting at the tourniquet with all of the rope that Llewellyn had used to tie the man up, but she managed it finally. The stump where the man's hand had been was no longer bleeding.
"Thank you." The man's voice was still cold. "Would you mind untying me now?"
"Are you insane?" Llewellyn yelped. "You tried to kill me?!"
The man turned his icy gaze on her. "Surely you won't hold that against me," he said. "I imagine that nearly everyone who has ever met you has wanted to do something similar."
Llewellyn was speechless for just a moment, and then she began to stalk up and down the room, waving her arms and yelling. "You tried to kill me!" she cried. "You nearly shot an arrow into my head!"
"I did not," the man corrected her calmly.
"You did, too!" Llewellyn yelped.
"I did not," the man repeated. "It was a crossbow bolt, not an arrow, and I wasn't the one who shot it. I merely intended to disembowel you after he missed."
"Oh, well that's so much better!" Llewellyn said. "Thank you so much for correcting me!" Her voice dripped acid. "I'd hate to accuse you of something you didn't do!"
"Not at all."
"But you still tried to kill me!"
The man attempted to shrug, though it wasn't easy given the quantity of rope that held him in place.
"And besides that, you stink!" Llewellyn yelped.
The man looked affronted. "I am very good at my job," he said. He glanced at Dana. "I merely failed to anticipate the fact that you would have friends." He sighed heavily. "That seemed such an unlikely possibility."
"No, I mean you really stink," Llewellyn told him.
The storeroom was small and crowded and all of the windows were still tightly shuttered. Dana had closed the door behind her. That meant that their was almost no ventilation, and, in the stuffy surroundings, a rich aroma was beginning to rise and permeate the air.
"Personal abuse is the last refuge of the witless," the man said calmly.
"It isn't abuse," Llewellyn said, her anger overcoming her fear and making her lean in close to the man. "It's that you stink!"
The man sighed again and turned to Dana. "You have some skill with a weapon," he said, "Or, at the very least, good reflexes. Have you more wit than your companion?"
"I have a shorter temper," Dana told him. "And some questions."
"No wit, then," the man replied. "I will not answer your questions."
"I already know that you're a member of the Brotherhood," Dana said. "We saw the tattoo on the back of your neck while we were bringing you here." The man remained silent. "That means," Dana continued, "that you were hired to kill Llewellyn. I want to know who hired you."
"Not why they hired me?" the man asked. Then he looked at Llewellyn. "No, I suppose that part of it is obvious."
Llewellyn spluttered at the man and grew red in the face, but the words which spewed out of her mouth were unintelligible. It was as if she was trying to curse in three separate languages at the same time, with the beginning of one word ending up grafted onto the middle of a second word and the end of a third. The resultant linguistic confusion communicated little of substance.
"If I have to resort to force," Dana warned him, "I will."
The man's smile was bleak. "You can't hurt me," he said. "That isn't an idle boast or misplaced machismo, but a simple fact. I won't feel the pain. If you hadn't rendered me unconscious, my hand would not even have bled."
They stared at each other for a long moment, and then Dana said, "I'm not going to take your word for it."
"Suit yourself," he replied indifferently. "But you can't hurt me."
"No," rumbled a new and much deeper voice, "But Kalan can."
Llewellyn jumped, yelped and looked toward the door, where the figure of a dwarf, armed and armored, could be seen. Llewellyn was annoyed that she hadn't heard him approach. Normally, the approach of a dwarf was audible for a considerable distance.
"You sent a message for Kalan?!" Llewellyn asked Dana, outraged.
"Of course," Dana said.
"Ho, Dana!" the dwarf called. She replied in kind. "Ho, short elf!" the dwarf continued.
Llewellyn glared at him. "I am not short," she said distinctly, spacing the words out as if she were addressing a complete idiot. Or a dwarf. Or an idiot dwarf.
"Ah," the prisoner said. "A dwarf." He said in much the same tone as Llewellyn might have. He cast a pitying look at Dana. "Your lack of wit is abundantly demonstrated by your choice of companions."
Kalan walked toward the killer and studied him from close up, his eyes unblinking. The man was unmoved by Kalan's contemplation of his features.
"Kalan Stoneshifter," the dwarf said politely.
The man raised one eyebrow. "Very good," he said. "Now can you spell it?"
Kalan smiled pleasantly. "Can," he said. "And can also spell desthraaki."
The man sighed. "Ah," he said. His words might have been tinged by regret.
"Hey!" Llewellyn cried. "We're not here to show how smart you think you are, bone brain! We're because this man tried to kill me!"
"Not is," Kalan said, tossing a look at Llewellyn.
"Excuse me?" Llewellyn asked. "Not is? Not is what?"
"Hang on, Llewellyn," Dana said, puzzled.
"Not is man," Kalan said. "Is desthraaki."
Llewellyn stared at the dwarf, which was not her idea of a pleasant pastime. "You're making less sense than usual," she said. "Of course he's a man." She waved at the prisoner. "You're not trying to say he's a woman, are you? Or maybe you think he's a really tall dwarf?"
The prisoner sighed again and looked at Dana. "Are you certain you don't wish to untie me?" he asked. "She must certainly get on your nerves."
"From time to time," Dana admitted.
"Hey!" Llewellyn yelped.
"Kalan," Dana said. "What's going on?"
The dwarf rocked back on his heels and said, "Look at face."
Puzzled, Dana leaned in and took a close look at the would-be killer's face. It was just a face. You might pass him on the street and never notice him. Except for the smell. She leaned back again, expelling a breath. Then she took another look. There was something not quite right about his eyes. Were the whites a little green? And his irises seemed a little too large. And there was something wrong with the way his eyes reflected the light.
"Desthraaki," Kalan explained, "not is alive. Is creation of magic and blood and death. Has troll blood so is very fast, feels little pain, sees well in darkness, very strong, heals quickly."
"And stinks," Llewellyn added.
"Has distinctive odor," Kalan agreed, "But can pass as human. Not does need to eat, not does need to breathe or sleep. Not can be killed because not is alive."
Dana stared at the not quite man and asked, "So what do we do?"
"What want from desthraaki?" Kalan asked her.
"He tried to kill me!" Llewellyn said.
"Perhaps she's secretly unhappy that I didn't succeed," the desthraaki suggested.
"What time?" Kalan asked.
"What does that matter?!" Llewellyn yelled, waving her arms.
"Just as the bell began to ring eight," Dana said, "Why?"
Kalan looked at the half-elf speculatively, and something in his eyes made Llewellyn back up a step.
"Four people murdered at 8:00 this night," Kalan said.
"What?!" Dana and Llewellyn cried simultaneously.
"Just as city bell rung at 8:00, four people in different parts of Farfell Down were murdered," Kalan explained.
"How do you know about this?" Dana asked.
"Everyone knows now," Kalan said. "Gossip runs fast."
"Quality work draws attention," the desthraaki said drily.
"Then no one will ever hear of you," Dana told him.
"Touche."
"Who were they?" Llewellyn asked, staring at Kalan.
"People who were killed?" he asked. Then, after she nodded, he listed the names, and Llewellyn whistled.
"What?" Dana asked.
"Do you know who those people are?"
"Were," the desthraaki corrected.
"No," Dana said. "Who?"
"The four best thieves in the kingdom!" She whistled and shook her head. "There are gonna be some vacancies in the top ranks of the Union of Thieves now."
"Bad night to be a thief in Farfell Down," Dana said.
"At least a very good one," Llewellyn said smugly.
Dana looked at her for a long moment and then said, "You know, having someone try to kill you isn't really the sort of compliment you want."
"I'm sure your name was on the list by mistake," the desthraaki added.
"Personal abuse is the last refuge of the witless," Llewellyn told him sarcastically.
"Repeating the witticisms of others because you can't think of your own is the last refuge of the dull of intellect," he replied.
Llewellyn, instead of replying "Touche," chose another two syllable response that was a bit more forceful. Hearing it, the desthraaki merely clicked his tongue and shook his head. "If that's an invitation," he said, "I decline. I don't really want to get to know you that well."
"Who hired you?" Dana asked, feeling that they were wandering from the point.
The desthraaki smiled thinly at her and made no reply.
Kalan stood in front of him and pulled out an axe.
The desthraaki shook his head. "You have no leverage," he said. "You can neither hurt nor kill me. I thought you know that."
"Kalan also knows that somewhere in desthraaki's body is small gemstone. If gemstone is removed, desthraaki returns to what is made of." He used the head of the axe as a pointer and let it range over the desthraaki's frame. "Kalan not does know where gemstone is, but does have sharp axe and lively sense of curiosity. Is willing to search."
"I was hired by Lord Whinter," the desthraaki said promptly.
"Why?" Dana asked.
The desthraaki looked surprised. "I don't know," he said. "Why should I? That isn't relevant."
"You mean you just go out and try to kill people because someone tells you to?" Llewellyn screeched.
"No, I go out and kill people because someone pays me to. There's a difference."
Dana looked at Llewellyn. "Do you know of any reason why Lord Whinter might be annoyed at thieves right now?" she asked.
"Well..." Llewllyn temporized.
Dana looked back at Kalan. "That'll do," she said.
"What of desthraaki?" Kalan asked, still holding his axe.
Dana rubbed her chin. "I want to turn him over to the City Watch," she said. "One look at that tattoo on the back of his neck, and they'll keep him out of circulation for a long time." She frowned. "But I don't want him telling them anything about what we might be up to tonight."
Kalan nodded. "Understand," he said. "Kalan will keep desthraaki company."
The desthraaki groaned.
"Will recite Kaagi's epic poem to him," Kalan continued. He looked at the desthraaki. "Is major landmark of dwarf culture."
"That's an oxymoron," the desthraaki said. Then, with the air of a man asking his doctor if something will hurt, he asked, "How long is it?"
Kalan shook his head. "Not long. Kalan can recite entire work in eight hours."
Llewellyn grinned as she and Dana began to walk away. "I don't feel sorry for him at all," she said.
As the walked out into the courtyard and then headed into a nearby alley, Dana said, "Now spill it."
Llewellyn cleared her throat. "Um...spill what?" she asked, utterly failing to either look or sound innocent.
Dana stopped, turned and pressed Llewellyn up against the wall of one of the buildings. "Tell me what's going on, Llewellyn.
Llewellyn cleared her throat and began to look around. She seemed inordinately fascinated by something on the wall of the building across the alley.
"Llewellyn?" Dana asked dangerously.
Llewellyn cleared her throat again and somehow managed to avoid catching Dana's eye. "Well," she said after a moment, "I may...possibly...have some idea why Lord Whinter might be a little...annoyed."
Dana waited impatiently, and Llewellyn, still failing to catch Dana's eye, continued.
"Two days ago, someone stole a painting or two from him."
"How many?"
Llewellyn's throat was getting quite a workout. She cleared it for the third time in as many minutes.
"Seven."
"And these paintings are worth...?"
Llewellyn exhaled and shrugged. "Oh...it's hard to set a value on genuine art, you know..."
"How much, Llewellyn?"
"Um..." Llewellyn waved her hands uselessly. "Not more than ten thousand gold pieces."
Dana whistled. That was an unbelievable amount of money.
"Each," Llewellyn added.
Dana's eyes widened. "You're kidding," she said.
Llewellyn managed to look both smug and embarrassed as she shook her head.
"I can see why Lord Whinter was upset," Dana said. "Upset enough to take out every top thief in the city just to try and get whoever stole his paintings."
"Yeah," Llewellyn said. "Who does he think he is? I mean, there's no excuse for that sort of behavior!"
"You mean," Dana suggested, "That you'd like it better if he only went after you?"
Llewellyn's mouth opened and closed several times, but no useful sounds came out of it.
"Do you still have the paintings?" Dana asked.
"I never said I stole them!" Llewellyn said, drawing herself up to her full height. "Why is it that every time some little thing--"
"Or seven," Dana interjected.
" gets stolen around here, you automatically suspect me of doing it?" Llewellyn asked indignantly.
"Because usually you are the one who did it. Do you still have the paintings?"
"I know where they are," Llewellyn said haughtily.
"Then let's go get them."
"What are you going to do?" Llewellyn was suddenly apprehensive.
"I'm not going to do anything," Dana said. "You're going to give them back."
"But but but..." Llewellyn said.
Dana simply stared at her, and Llewellyn trailed off into silence.
"Good," Dana said. "Let's go."
After they picked up the paintings, they began to make their way toward Lord Whinter's house on the other side of the city.
Llewellyn was nervous, hiding the rolled up canvases beneath her cloak. Dana was alert, but not on edge. There was something that was bothering her, though, and, after a few minutes, she broached the subject with Llewellyn.
"If these paintings were stolen two days ago," she asked, just to save time carefully phrasing her question to avoid any implication that Llewellyn had performed the actual theft, "They why do you still have them?"
"Well," Llewellyn replied, "Let's say that you had some property that you wanted to get rid of and that you knew someone who typically bought things from you."
"A fence," Dana suggested.
Llewellyn looked offended. "That would be illegal," she said. "I'm just talking about someone who buys things. People do that all the time. They buy things from people who are selling things, all right? There doesn't have to be anything illegal about it at all!" She glared at Dana who didn't say a word. After a moment, Llewellyn nodded and continued. "Well, this friend of yours who buys things can't be an expert on every kind of property. He might have to bring in experts on things like, just pick a random example, paintings, before he can decide what's a fair price to pay. And just suppose that his expert happened to be out of the city at the moment. In that case, the perfectly legitimate and simple business deal that you were contemplating might have to wait a while, that's all."
"Ah," Dana said.
Lord Whinter's house proved to be a large mansion. At this late hour, the windows were all dark.
"So," Llewellyn whispered, peering at the house, "How do we do this?"
"We sneak in and leave the paintings and sneak out," Dana said. "Hopefully that'll be enough to satisfy him."
"What if it doesn't?"
"Then we'll think of something else."
Llewellyn looked doubtful, but, as she had no better ideas to offer, she led the way across the street.
Since, in her previous visit, she had thoroughly scouted all the possible points of entry into the house, she got them inside quickly, and once they were within the darkened building, it was Dana who was at a disadvantage. There was sufficient light straggling through the windows for Llewellyn's catlike vision, but Dana had to rely on her companion to guide her through the building.
They eventually reached a large room. Just as the door shut behind them, Dana realized that she could smell hot oil and reached for her sword. It had just cleared the sheath when a shuttered lantern was opened and seven men stepped out of various hiding places within the room.
Llewellyn yelped and jumped behind Dana, who was warily scanning the men who'd been waiting for them.
Of the seven men, six of them were young, husky and well armed. The seventh was considerably older and unarmed. He was rubbing his hands together and laughing to himself with pleasure.
"I knew you'd come back," he said, wagging a finger at the pair. "I knew it."
"We came--" Dana began, but he cut her off.
"I know why you came. The temptation was too great! You realized what a mistake you had made!" The man was positively cackling now.
"Well--" Dana began again.
"Not well!" the man corrected her. "Not well at all! Now," he paused dramatically and flung his arm out to point at the wall, "Look your last upon the treasure!" Dana didn't look. Even when she had been talking, her eyes had been watching the six armed men and she wasn't going to stop just because someone pointed off in another direction.
"Look!" the man snapped, stamping his foot.
Dana didn't.
The old man frowned at the two women who had invaded his home and were now refusing to obey his orders. "No one is going to attack you!" he said. "Look!"
Dana still didn't look.
The old man frowned at his own men. "Drop your weapons," he ordered them.
They hesitated for just an instant and then followed his instructions. The metallic sound of the swords hitting he floor was quite loud.
"Now," the old man said, pointing again, "Look your last upon the treasure!"
Dana shrugged and then looked quickly in the indicated direction. Hanging on the wall were eight frames, seven of which were empty. The eighth frame, which was in the middle of the display, was a portrait of a woman holding a jug near a well, with trees and a garden visible behind her. Sporting in the garden were a variety of winged children and a herd of deer. It was so hideous that it defied description.
It wasn't merely that the painting was too busy or the colors too garish. It wasn't that the artist (if such a word could possibly be used so loosely that it might apply to whoever had executed this particular work) apparently had absolutely no sense at all of perspective or proportion. It wasn't even the fact that the woman, who was clearly meant to be radiant and peaceful, looked like she was on the wrong side of a three week debauch. No, somehow this work managed to take these things, as bad as they were, and combine them in a way that transcended hideousness to reach a previously unreached plane of utter badness.
"Well?" the man asked.
"Um..." Dana said. She looked at Llewellyn and shook her head, obviously at a loss for words. Then she looked back at the old man. "Um," she said again. "You are Lord Whinter?"
"Of course."
"And you did hire the Brotherhood to kill thieves, right?"
"Yes," he said impatiently. "And, since I didn't know who had done it, I just told them to pick the most skilled and kill them all."
"Yes. Suppose the thief wanted to return the stolen paintings and--"
"Those?" Lord Whinter roared suddenly. "What do I care about those?"
"Wait a minute!" Llewellyn yelled, shoving Dana out of the way to step to the front of the group. "Wait just a minute! I get this!" She looked at Dana. "I get this!" she repeated.
"I'm glad someone does," Dana said, shaking her head.
Llewellyn glared at Lord Whinter. "You don't care about the stolen paintings!"
"Of course not!" Lord Whinter snapped, dismissing the stolen works or art with a wave of his hand. "I can replace those with one visit to a shop."
"You tried to kill me," Llewellyn said, advancing upon him, "Because I didn't steal that painting!" She pointed an accusing finger at the remaining picture.
"It was an insult!" Lord Whinter roared. "You come into my house and steal my works of art, but the one that I painted wasn't good enough to steal, was it?! Oh, no. You just had to take the ones by the professional artists." He managed to pack a lot of distaste into the word 'professional.'
"I don't believe this!" Llewellyn yelped, spinning around to share her dismay with the room at large. "You tried to have me killed for NOT stealing something? What kind of lunatic are you?!"
"It was an insult!" he yelled again.
They were only inches apart now, with Llewellyn stooping so that they were face to face. "You mean you'd like it better if I stole your stupid painting?" she yelled.
"Yes!" he bellowed. "Of course!"
"Fine!" Llewellyn snapped, stomping toward the wall. "You just watch me!"
"Oh, sure," he yelled. "You say that now! You don't have the taste to steal my painting!"
Dana and the bodyguards looked at each other. One of the bodyguards discreetly twirled his finger next to his head.
"Hey, I have more art knowledge in my little finger than you have in your whole body!" Llewellyn shrieked. "I didn't steal your painting because I didn't think anyone would buy it from me!"
"That just goes to show that you have no taste!"
"I do so!" Llewellyn protested loudly.
"Prove it!" he yelled.
"I will!" she screamed.
She whipped out a knife and quickly sliced the painting from its frame, rolled it into a tube and stomped back toward Dana, who, along with Lord Whinter's six bodyguards was staring open mouthed.
"Come on!" Llewellyn said, brushing past Dana and out of the room. Dana, looking slightly dazed but still holding her sword, followed her.
From behind them came a shout. "Hey!"
"Llewellyn," Dana said.
"What?!" Llewellyn yelled, still stomping unhurriedly down the hall in a fine fret.
"Run."
"Why?"
"Stop!" a voice yelled from behind them. "Stop, thief!"
"That's why."
"Oh, what now?!" Llewellyn cried in exasperation, stopping and turning.
"Come on," Dana said uselessly.
Lord Whinter came charging out of the large room and down the hall with his bodyguards behind them.
"Give me back my painting!"
"You said you wanted me to steal it!" Llewellyn bellowed at him.
"But...but...but...!" he spluttered.
"What, now you're saying you've changed your mind?!" Llewellyn cried. "You don't want it stolen after all?!"
"It's my painting! I'm the one who slaved over that canvas! Why should you have it?!"
"Because you told me to steal it, you moron!" Llewellyn was waving her hands, one of which still clutched the rolled up canvas. Behind Lord Whinter, the bodyguards held their weapons uncertainly and tried unsuccessfully to look menacing.
"It's my painting!" Whinter said again, restating his theme.
"Not any more!" Llewellyn said. "I stole it. Now it's my painting. That's the law!"
"What law?" Whinter yelled. "There isn't any law like that!"
"Well, there should be," Llewellyn screamed. "And that's the same thing."
"No it isn't!" Whinter said, pulling back slightly. He waved a finger under her nose. "You're a lunatic!"
"Look who's calling people names!" Llewellyn retorted, looking around at Dana and the bodyguards. "Listen you--"
Dana took a deep breath. "Shut up!" she bellowed.
Startled silence reigned for just a moment, then Dana walked up to Whinter. "What'll you give to get the painting back? Would you call off the Brotherhood?"
He looked startled at the interruption and then nodded his head firmly. "Yes," he said.
"Good." She turned to Llewellyn. "Give him back the painting."
"No!" Llewellyn said. "I stole it! It's mine."
Dana, grabbed Llewellyn's arm with the hand that wasn't holding her sword and hustled her several feet away. "May I remind you," she said in a furious but quiet voice, "That you didn't even want that painting in the first place?"
"That was before he wanted it back," Llewellyn said, drawing herself up to her full height. "He needs to learn to respect other people!"
Dana reached up, grabbed the neck of Llewellyn's tunic, twisted it tight and pulled Llewellyn's down to the level of her own. "You listen to me, Llewellyn, " Dana said., her voice suddenly empty of all emotion. "You will give that painting back right now without hesitation and without qualification or you will walk with a limp for the next year, assuming that you can walk at all."
"Absolutely," Llewellyn said brightly and without hesitation. Her voice was a little strangled until Dana relaxed her grip slightly, but that didn't mask the enforced gaiety that animated her tone. When Dana suddenly didn't sound angry any more, it meant that she was getting ready to damage things. Or people. Llewellyn looked toward Whinter. "I'd like to return your painting now," she said.
"Tell him how much you like it," Dana ordered quietly.
"What?" Llewellyn started to ask in complaint, but her voice ended in a squawk as Dana tightened her grip again. Llewellyn looked back at Whinter. "I'll miss terribly having it hanging on my wall," she said, adding in a much quieter voice, "So I could throw knives at it."
"Do you really like it?" Whinter simpered.
"Oh, yes," Llewellyn said. "It's clearly the finest piece of artwork the world has ever seen."
"It's yours," Whinter said.
"What?!" Dana and Llewellyn said simultaneously.
"I give it you," Lord Whinter said, obviously pleased with his magnanimity.
In her surprise, Dana let go of Llewellyn, who now stalked toward Lord Whinter. "Now wait just a minute!" she said. "Let me get this straight. First you try to kill me for not stealing it, then you practically order to me steal but get mad when I do and demand it back, and now you're giving me this picture?!"
"Well," he said, "It sounds silly when you put it that way."
"What other way is there to put it?" Llewellyn screeched, waving the picture haphazardly through the air and almost smacking her host on the head with it.
"I was obviously mistaken about you," he said. "You are clearly a woman with highly developed aesthetic sense, and I want you to have this picture."
"But," Dana said carefully. "Won't you miss having it?"
He shrugged. "Eh," he said carelessly. "I can always paint another one."
Llewellyn started to reach out toward him, but Dana quickly moved in and grabbed her by the arm.
"Well, thank you very much," Dana said. "But we wouldn't feel right separating such a magnificent work from its creator. We hope that you will keep the painting yourself and perhaps put it on display so that others may admire its beauty."
Lord Whinter gasped
Dana nudged Llewellyn sharply between the ribs, and she handed the painting over.
Lord Whinter clutched it to his bosom and said, "I would never have guessed that the lower classes would contain people of such taste as the two of you. I hope that you'll come back to visit me sometime."
"That might happen," Llewellyn said, looking around at the rich furnishings and appointments. "Say," she said, "Do you have any other hobbies? Like building furniture or making tapestries or sculpting or making jewelry?"
He shook his head. "No, only painting."
Llewellyn looked satisfied. "Then I'll definitely come back for a visit sometime."
"Time to go," Dana said.
"Wait," Lord Whinter called. "Tell me your names so that I may find some suitable honor for you, like naming a room in the museum I am going to build after you!"
Dana shook her head. "We'd prefer for our contribution to the arts to remain anonymous," she said.
"Especially," Llewellyn added sotto voce, "since our contribution is making it possible for that thing to hang on display. He should hang on display instead."
They edged toward the front door as Lord Whinter showered then with compliments. And then, as the old man turned away to rehang his beloved painting, Llewellyn scooped up a few small statuettes and tucked them away next to the seven paintings in the numerous pockets that lined her cloak.
"What an evening," Dana said, sighing as the door at last closed behind them.
Llewellyn took out one of the statuettes and admired it. It had a few dents and scrapes, but it looked like solid gold. Llewellyn hefted it. It felt like solid gold, too. Running her finger over one of the dents, she said, "It's not exactly picture perfect, but I'll take it."
Bio:"I am a college biology teacher living in the southeastern US with my wife, one dog, and one cat, which is plenty of cats but several dogs too few. All in all, I think the universe is a lot sillier than we can possibly imagine, which won't stop me from trying."
E-mail: benedet@esn.net
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