We didn't see Benvenuti again for a time. Winter was upon
us, and that was always a busy season for the trade. Noblemen and financiers and men-about-town came down with cabin fever, got cranky, decided what's-his-name was the cause of all their misery, sent for Greyboar.
Then, alas, came spring. I hated spring. Everybody's mood turned gay, flowers, birds chirping, all that crap. Business went into the toilet except for the run on brides by jealous rivals, and that didn't do us any good on account of Greyboar wouldn't choke girls. Fortunately, we did pick up the occasional groom. (Hired by rivals, sometimes; but usually it was the in-laws who came knocking on our door.) Otherwise we'd have starved.
So, anyway, come late April Greyboar suddenly decided to visit Benvenuti in his studio. The Cat happened to be around that day, and she agreed readily enough to the proposal. And when Jenny and Angela heard about it, they were practically bouncing off the walls in their eagerness to come along.
I wasn't too happy about that, remembering how good-looking the damned artist was. But after I stalled for a few minutes, Greyboar—the treacherous dog—started making snide remarks about jealous shrimps. Then Jenny and Angela started making sarcastic predictions about midgets suddenly put on a regimen of total abstinence and I withdrew my objections. I did, however, insist on coming along.
"What's this, Ignace?" asked Greyboar slyly. "Have you developed a sudden interest in art?"
I maintained a dignified silence. Jenny and Angela did not, but I see no reason to repeat their childish remarks.
Benvenuti's studio was located in a part of town which Greyboar and I hadn't visited in quite a while. But we had no trouble finding the place. The driver of the carriage which Greyboar hired was familiar with the studio. Partly, he explained, that was because Benvenuti had become rather famous since he arrived in New Sfinctr a year or so earlier. An artistic rocket blazing into the heavens, to hear the cabbie tell it. And partly, he explained, it was because Benvenuti had become rather notorious since his arrival. A matter of several duels, it seemed, fought with jealous husbands and suitors. And finally, he explained, it was because Benvenuti was located in a most peculiar place for an artist's studio.
When the carriage dropped us off in front of the studio, his remarks became clear. Benvenuti's studio was located on the second floor of a grim-looking gray building. The first floor was occupied by a salle d'armes.
Hrundig's salle d'armes, in point of fact.
Awkward.
"I thought you said you didn't know the place," grumbled Greyboar.
"He moved," I snapped. "This isn't the joint I cased out. That was over—"
Greyboar waved his hand. "Never mind, never mind."
We stood there for a moment, staring at the door.
"He kept the same sign, though," I muttered.
Oh, there was no doubt about it. Not the sort of sign you forget, especially when its owner is someone you've been approached to give the big squeeze.
Learn the brutal martial arts of Alsask!
The Thrusts! The Chops! The Strokes!
Study Impromptu Amputation!
Develop Disemboweling Skills!
Master of arms: Hrundig, Barbarian of Alsask,
Veteran of the Ozarean Legions.
Greyboar shrugged. "What the hell?" He started lumbering toward the door. "We turned down the job, didn't we?"
I began to follow, with the Cat and Jenny and Angela in tow, when the door suddenly opened. Hrundig himself appeared in the doorway. He was wearing half-armor and carrying a sword. In his hand.
"Are you here on business?" he asked. Very mild, his voice was.
We stared at him for a moment. Hrundig's a rather remarkable-looking man. Rumor has it that he's human, but you have to wonder a bit. There are those odd discrepancies.
First off, his skin. Alsasks are pale, to be sure, but Hrundig's flesh was as white as an albino's. Yet his skin had none of that translucent, pinkish appearance which a true albino's does. No, his flesh looked like the wall of a glacier.
And that's not a bad image, actually, to convey the essence of the man. A walking, talking—glacier.
It wasn't his size, so much. True, Hrundig was a little bigger than the average man—the average Alsask, for that matter, who tend to run on the large size—but he was no giant like Greyboar. No, it wasn't his size. It wasn't even his musculature, impressive as it was. It was the sense he exuded of a man whose body was as hard as a glacier and whose soul was just as cold. And both of which—body and soul together—were inexorable.
Oh, yeah, and his eyes. Ice blue.
Greyboar shrugged. "We're simply here on a personal call, Hrundig. We're not looking for you, as it happens. We're looking for Benvenuti Sfondrati-Piccolomini."
No expression registered on Hrundig's face beyond a slight sense of calculation.
"I'm being quite honest," added Greyboar. "The truth is, we had no idea you even lived here."
Hrundig's smile was, as they say, chilly. "I'm trying to remember," he mused, "if lying directly to the chokee—protestations of innocent intentions, to be precise—is allowed under the Professional Stranglers' Official Code of Ethics. As a means of gaining access to the chokee's gullet."
Greyboar looked slightly embarrassed. "Well, actually, as a matter of fact, it is. Hallowed by tradition, actually. To be precise."
"That's what my memory was just telling me."
Greyboar shrugged again. "Why would I do it, Hrundig? We turned down that little job offer, you know."
The smile was now, as they say, wintry. "Not exactly. As I heard the tale, you turned down the price offered for the job."
Greyboar grinned. "Turned it down flat. Can you believe that idiot Sk—well, no names; matter of professional ethics—offered us the usual rate?"
For just a fleeting instant, a faint look of curiosity came and went in Hrundig's deep-set eyes. "What was your counteroffer?"
Greyboar looked at me. I sighed.
"I offered triple rate. And no bargaining."
The memory was still a bit hot. "And would you believe that jackass Sk—" I choked down the words. "Well, no names. Matter of professional ethics, you understand."
Hrundig's smile widened, slightly. "It was Skerritt," he stated. "Irked, he was, that I was taking so much business from his own salle d'armes."
Widened further. "Pity, what a sad end he came to. I hear they found him in an alley, a bit later, rather badly hacked up."
(Actually, they found Skerritt in several alleys. His limbs, that is. His guts they found hanging from a lamppost. And his—well, let's just say that Skerritt's demise gave vivid proof that the expression "head up his ass" was no mere metaphor.)
I'm not sure to this day whether Hrundig would have allowed us to come any nearer, if it hadn't been for Jenny and Angela. The two girls had held back a bit, almost hiding behind me. (So to speak. There's not actually that much of me to hide behind. Especially for Jenny, who outtops me by several inches.)
But if there was one characteristic both of those girls had in spades, it was curiosity, and so they couldn't help sticking their heads over my shoulders to get a peek.
"And who are you two?" asked Hrundig.
Jenny and Angela's heads ducked down. Then, a moment later, reappeared. Curiosity, like I said.
"I'm Jenny. And she's Angela."
Hrundig's cold blue eyes fixed on Angela.
"So you're the one," he stated. "Beautiful girl. I can see why the Baron was so distraught by your departure."
Angela scowled. "Damn the Baron!" she snapped.
For the first time, Hrundig's smile had an actual trace of warmth in it. "Oh, my, I've no doubt of that, lass. Imagine he's feeling quite toasty at the moment."
Then, suddenly—I swear I'm not lying—Hrundig's eyes actually twinkled. "You cost me one of my best customers, you know."
Angela pressed her lips together, but she stood her ground. She actually glared at Hrundig.
The Alsask chuckled. "Oh, I'm not peeved about it, girl. There's plenty more where he came from. Customers I'm not lacking, they stand in line. I don't like the most of them, but the Baron was a particular disfavorite of mine."
For a moment, Hrundig held his gaze on her, then transferred it back to Greyboar. Again, that faint look of calculation came to his face.
"I'm trying to remember," he mused, "if your famous prohibition on burking girls extends to throttling men in front of girls."
Greyboar shrugged. "Well, no, in point of fact. Although—"
The strangler stopped, exasperated. "There's no point to this, Hrundig," he rumbled. "If you don't want to let us get near you, fine. Just tell Benvenuti we were here and I'll make arrangements to meet him elsewhere."
Suddenly, Hrundig scabbarded his sword.
"Oh, I don't think that'll be necessary." He eyed Jenny and Angela again. "Somehow, I don't think you'd do a job in front of those girls."
The blue eyes seemed to bore into Greyboar's soul. "Your reputation's rather interesting, actually, to a man like me. Contradictory, you might say. I like that in a man."
He stood to one side of the door, and politely waved us inside.
Greyboar strode through the door. I followed. With dignity, I dare say, although I thought my hair would stand on end when I passed by Hrundig. I'd seen what was left of Skerritt, as it happens, and I wasn't a bit happy knowing that sword was behind me, and but two feet away. Scabbarded, sure. So what? How long does it take a tiger to bare its teeth?
Within, we found ourselves in a very large room. The actual salle, as it were, of the salle d'armes—and now I knew why they called it that. The floor was a beautifully finished parquet, perfect for footwork. And the walls—it was grotesque! The walls were literally covered with every conceivable hand weapon known to man. I didn't even recognize most of them, and I haven't exactly led what you'd call a sheltered life.
The girls gaped. The Cat, who until that moment had seemed to be off on another planet, immediately headed over to one wall and stood there, fixedly studying something that looked like a homicidal maniac's nightmare version of a double-ended straight-bladed scythe.
"What's this called?" she asked.
"That's a lajatang," replied Hrundig. "It's from one of the southern provinces of the Sundjhab."
The armsmaster came over and stood by her side, examining the monstrosity with a look of warm regard. "Beautiful, isn't it? It's quite a rare weapon, you know. Even in the Sundjhab, not many people are proficient in its use. It's a difficult weapon to master."
"How much?" demanded the Cat.
Hrundig's eyes turned ice cold. "It's not for sale. None of my weapons are."
The Cat snorted contemptuously. "Of course not! You damned idiot, how much is it to train me to use it?"
Hrundig actually started. Slightly.
"Train you? In the lajatang?"
The Cat turned her gaze full on him. Magnified through those incredible spectacles, her own blue eyes seemed even icier than Hrundig's.
"Are you hard of hearing?" she demanded. "Or just stupid?"
Blue glare met blue glare. Glaciers collided.
Greyboar looked worried. I looked for the door. Too far. But there was a big shield on the wall nearby. I thought maybe the girls and I could hide behind it.
Suddenly, Hrundig laughed. A real, genuine laugh, too. Full of mirth and good humor.
"No, lady," he said—still laughing—"I'm neither deaf nor stupid. Just caught by surprise."
He shook his head, eyeing the Cat admiringly. "A hundred quid," he announced.
The Cat immediately transferred her gaze to Greyboar. The strangler coughed, glanced at me—I could see it coming!—and caved in.
"Sure, sweetheart. I can swing it." To Hrundig, in a feeble attempt to recapture a smidgen of manly frugality: "That's a hundred a week, I imagine. But for how many sessions?"
Hrundig shook his head. "You misunderstand. One hundred's the total price."
Greyboar's jaw dropped, just a bit. Mine probably hit the floor. Hrundig wasn't precisely what you'd call upper crust—to put it mildly—but he was still the most exclusive armsmaster in New Sfinctr. He charged noblemen a hundred quid just to show them how to draw a dagger out of its sheath.
The Cat nodded. Not graciously, not thankfully—just, Cat-like. Hard to explain. As if the way things turned out were the way they naturally would, since nothing makes any sense to begin with.
I didn't even bother squalling. No point in it. I just dug into my purse and handed over the money. Although I did manage a marvelous scowl.
Greyboar had enough sense to avoid my glaring eye. He ambled toward a far door and disappeared into the stairwell beyond. A moment later, I followed, eager to depart the scene of the crime. (A hundred quid! So's a crazy woman could learn to handle a crazy weapon!)
On the floor above, in a large studio, I found Greyboar staring at something over the shoulder of a man seated on a stool, working on a canvas. As I approached, I recognized the fellow as Benvenuti. He seemed to be totally preoccupied with a portrait of some kind. Hearing my footsteps, he turned his head. Then, seeing the huge figure of Greyboar looming over him, he made a little gasp of startlement. It was obvious that he'd had no idea of the strangler's presence.
I couldn't help grinning. Huge as he is, and as much as his walk looks like a lumber, Greyboar can move with absolute silence.
"Soft-footed, isn't he?" I chuckled. "You wouldn't think such a huge lump could move like a cat, but he does. Quite an asset in our line of work, actually."
"I can imagine," said Benvenuti, frowning in bemusement. He gave Greyboar a very keen scrutiny, then. A keen scrutiny. You always hear about the "artist's eye," but for the first time in my life I got a real sense of the thing. And there was something different about the way Benvenuti was studying Greyboar now, compared to the way he had done so at The Trough. This time, I sensed, he was focusing not on the man, but the strangler.
Greyboar himself was oblivious. He was completely preoccupied with studying the portrait.
"Since when did you become an art connoyser?" I demanded.
The chokester shook his head. "You should see this, Ignace," he said. His tone combined admiration with—something else, I couldn't tell what. "I swear, it's the spitting image."
I moved closer. Recoiled. "Saints preserve us," I muttered.
Benvenuti tore his eyes from Greyboar and glanced at the portrait he was working on. A raffish grin came to his face.
"I should certainly hope so!" he exclaimed. "The portrait alone should do the trick. After all, he is a holy man."
Greyboar mumbled something. I didn't catch all of it, but the words "slimespawn" and "scumbag" came through clearly enough.
Benvenuti must have caught more of it, because he started shaking his head with mock chagrin. "Such language! To refer to a Cardinal."
"Luigi Carnale, Cardinal Fornacaese," growled Greyboar. "If ever pure corruption took human form, it's him."
Benvenuti gave the portrait a clinical study. "Dare say you're right," he mused. "I do know it's taken all of my skill—to keep the image accurate, on the one hand, while not portraying the foulness which oozes from the man's every pore."
"You've met him, then?" grunted Greyboar.
"Oh, yes. Spent several hours in his company, while he sat. Fortunately, I was able to keep him quiet. Told him I needed absolute stillness to catch his image properly."
A small commotion caused us to turn. Jenny and Angela had come into the room, with the Cat drifting in their wake. The girls were eagerly examining the various portraits hanging on the walls, oohing and ahing with admiration.
I got a bit tense, then, I'll admit. Bad enough the guy was so good-looking! Now the girls were goggling over his talent, too.
Artists. Ought to hang the whole lot. It's unfair competition for the working stiff.
I was relieved to see that Benvenuti gave them no more than a passing glance. A keen glance, mind—I didn't care for that at all—but a quick one. His attention was almost immediately riveted on the Cat.
With another man, I would have assumed a certain kind of interest. The woman's nuts, but she really does have a great figure. But with Benvenuti—
No. It was that "artist's eye" again.
I couldn't help laughing. "Yeah, that's her, Benny. Your model. Good luck! You're going to need it."
The artist was now studying her with ferocious intensity. "How does she move?" he muttered. His hands made vague wandering gestures. "So hard to follow. Seems she's going one way but she's not, and then—never gets there when you think she's going to."
Then: "Fascinating!"
He continued staring at her for some time. The Cat, of course, took no notice at all of the attention she was drawing. She was just—drifting—through the room, looking at everything and nothing in particular.
Again, I laughed. My laugh jerked Benvenuti out of his trance. The artist looked at Greyboar. The expression on the chokester's face was a combination of pride and bemusement.
"Yeah, she's the lady I told you about. Can you do her portrait? Her name's Schrödinger's Cat, by the way."
I held my breath. Then, when Benvenuti said nothing, exhaled with disgust.
I hate losing money. Really, really, really hate losing money. But I was already digging into my pocket before Greyboar spoke the inevitable words.
"You owe me a quid." His ugly oversize mitt was already extended. Sourly, I dropped the coin into it. Poor little coin looked like a lost sheep in that vast expanse.
"We had a bet," explained Greyboar. "Ignace was sure you'd ask who Schrödinger is, like everybody else does. But I knew you were too refined and gentlemanly, unlike the slobs Ignace hangs out with in The Trough."
"Of course he is!" exclaimed Jenny. "He's an artist—a real one!" She pointed to one of the portraits hanging on the wall. "Just look at this! It's beautiful."
She turned and bestowed a gleaming smile upon him. "I'm Jenny, by the way. And this is Angela. Ignace should have introduced us, but he's not refined and gentlemanly."
Jenny now turned toward the Cat, who was standing at the far wall, examining one of Benvenuti's paintings. "Hey, Cat!" she hollered. "Come over here and meet the fellow who's going to paint your portrait."
The Cat swiveled her head and fixed her gaze on Benvenuti. Through the thick lenses, her eyes seemed huge. And very blue. Ice blue.
"Not like this, I hope," she stated forcefully, jabbing her finger at the portrait before which she was standing.
Benvenuti laughed. "I should think not! The portraits you see hanging on the walls are the results of commissions which went unpaid. The Sfinctrian nobility, I am afraid, has a lackadaisical attitude toward paying their debts. I simply keep them here as advertisement."
For a moment, he fell back into his "artist's trance" way of staring at her, before turning to Greyboar and saying:
"It's your decision, of course. You're the customer. But I do not actually think that a formal portrait would do justice to—uh, Cat."
"The Cat," Greyboar corrected. He rubbed his chin. "Well—you're the professional." He glanced at the Cat, who was off again, wandering about. "I'll admit it would be difficult to get her to sit still for a formal pose."
Benvenuti shook his head. "And it wouldn't—how shall I say it? It wouldn't be her. It would be—" He waved at the various portraits on the walls.
Greyboar looked at them. "Yeah, I see what you mean. They all look like they're constipated or something." He shrugged. "All right. Do whatever you think's best."
For about the next hour or so, Benvenuti drew a whole series of charcoal sketches. Within minutes, he was oblivious to anything else. Greyboar stayed and watched for quite some time, but the rest of us started wandering around. (By "the rest of us" I mean me, Jenny and Angela. "Wandering around" doesn't really apply to the Cat. She wanders around when she's standing still, if you know what I mean.)
Jenny found them first. Wandering into a room where she shouldn't have been wandering, with me and Angela not far behind like we shouldn't have been, she suddenly started oohing and ahing again.
"You've got to see these!" she squeaked.
Angela scurried into the room. A moment later I heard her oohing and ahing too.
"Oh, they're wonderful."
Tiresome. Like I said, they ought to hang all artists just on general principle. Male ones, anyway.
I moseyed into the room, just to bring the presence of masculine sanity and nonchalance. A bedroom, it was. The artist's, apparently. But I didn't have much time to examine the furnishings, for my eyes were immediately drawn to the portraits which lined every single wall in the room.
I froze. Utter shock.
The portraits were all of a single woman. The same woman, over and again, in a variety of poses. Except they weren't really poses. I'm no artist, but even I could tell that these paintings had been done from memory. These weren't your typical studio portraits.
All kinds of portraits, there were. The most of them, mind you, were eminently proper. A woman—the woman—fully clothed, riding a horse. The same woman, sitting on a chair staring out a window. Same woman, singing.
But, then—there were the others.
The same woman—the woman—lying on a bed.
You know.
Artists call them "nudes." Us lowlifes call them nekkid wimmen.
There were a lot of those paintings. The same woman, in a variety of different poses and attitudes. None of them were actually what you'd call pornographic, mind you. Even in my state of shock, I could tell that these were the kind of paintings that aesthetes go berserk over but don't do all that much for your normal regular-guy-type lecher.
Still. I mean—naked.
Her.
That woman.
I finally found my voice.
"Get out of here!" I hissed to Jenny and Angela. "If we close the door and act like nothing happened, maybe we can still keep—"
Jenny and Angela were glaring at me.
"And just what's your problem now, Ignace?" demanded Jenny.
"Yeah!" chimed in Angela, planting her hands on hips. "Still protecting your little cherubs? Boy, do you—"
I tried to shut them up with frantic hand motions.
Too late. Greyboar was already standing in the doorway.
I sighed. "And here it is," I muttered. "Murther and massacree. So much for pleasant social outings."
Greyboar was motionless—all except his head, which was slowly scanning the room. His eyes—I swear it—were starting to bulge out of their sockets. And that's some feat, believe me, when you've got a brow like his.
"Aren't they wonderful, Greyboar?" piped up Jenny.
Greyboar made no reply, beyond a faint noise which sounded like a man strangling to death. I was seized by a sudden urge to giggle. I suppressed the urge manfully. (Well, more like a despot suppresses insurrection.)
The chokester scanned the portraits, wall to wall. His head swiveled back, scanning. When he was done, he turned and walked out of the room. There was a kind of slow but inexorable pace to his movement. Think of a glacier advancing on a rabbit hutch.
"What's wrong with him?" demanded Angela crossly.
I rolled my eyes. Pointed to the portraits.
"That's his sister," I hissed. "Gwendolyn."
Their eyes grew round. They stared at the portraits. Me, I just sighed and left the room.
In the studio, I found Greyboar standing in the center of the room. He was staring at the artist, who was still seated and working on his sketches.
I started to head toward the chokester. Not quite sure why, really. I mean, it's not as if a guy my size is really going to restrain the world's greatest strangler when he's hell-bent on—
What would you call that, anyway? Throttling your sister's squeeze? Sororicopulicide?
But, to my surprise, Greyboar turned away. And then, to my utter astonishment, went and got a chair against the far wall, hauled it out, and planted himself upon it. And there he sat, his face like a stone, watching the artist finishing his sketches.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hrundig enter the room. His eyes quickly flitted about, taking in the whole scene. Greyboar, seated, staring at Benvenuti. The door to Benvenuti's private room, open. Jenny and Angela, now standing in that door, staring pale-faced at Greyboar. Me, standing in the middle of room, looking like—whatever I looked like.
Yeah, Hrundig looks like your classic barbarian lowbrow, but there's really nothing at all wrong with his brains. It didn't take him but the instant to size up the situation. His expression grew grimmer—some trick, that—and his hand moved to his sword.
For a moment, everything was frozen. Then, suddenly, Benvenuti sat up straight, blew out his cheeks, and exclaimed: "Finished!"
He held up the sketches and turned his head. For the first time, he became aware of his surroundings. His eyes flicked about, absorbing the odd poses and expressions on the people in the room. He cocked an eyebrow.
"Is something amiss?" he asked. He glanced down at the sketch pad. "You don't care for them? I think they're quite excellent—and I'm usually my own harshest critic."
"It's not that," I muttered. "It's those other—"
"You should perhaps have kept the door to your private room closed," said Hrundig.
Angela and Jenny started scurrying forward.
"We shouldn't have gone into that room in the first place!" squeaked Jenny.
"That's right!" chimed in Angela. "The gentleman has as much right to privacy as anybody!"
Greyboar spoke then, his voice sounding even more like an avalanche than usual. "There's an interesting set of portraits in the other room," he rumbled.
Benvenuti's face grew absolutely still. Not scared-shitless-still, though. Just—still. As stony as Greyboar's own.
I was impressed. Really impressed. Most people, when Greyboar gives them The Stare—men, for sure—turn pale, sweaty, sickly looking, etc., etc., etc., including, usually, serious bowel-control problems.
Not this guy. Artist he may have been, and an Ozarine to boot, but he had steel balls.
I made a last, desperate attempt to head off slaughter and mayhem. "Hey, big guy," I said, placing a restraining hand—so to speak—on Greyboar's shoulder, "I'm sure his intentions were quite honorable. It doesn't mean anything, you know. Women are always posing stark nak—uh, nude—for artists. It's not the same thing as—you know. Different rules."
"That's right!" squeaked Angela. Jenny nodded her head about a million times.
Benvenuti rose, dropped his sketch pad on the chair, and walked over to the door to his private room. He started to close it, when a thought apparently came to him.
"Cat," he said. The Cat turned away from a portrait and gave him that bottle-glass stare. Benvenuti's face was expressionless, still, and then he said—in a voice with nary a quaver (boy, was I impressed):
"I believe you are the only person here who has not yet examined the paintings in my private chambers. You might want to take a look at them. They're far better than the ones out here." He made a slight gesture with his hand, politely inviting her in.
The Cat drifted past him into the room. Benvenuti turned back to Greyboar.
"The woman in those paintings," he said harshly, "was not a model. Nor did she ever pose for me. She was my lover, once, and I did those paintings from memory."
I sighed, and covered my face with a hand. "Oh, boy," I muttered. "It's like the wise man says: 'why waste a good excuse on a dummy?' "
Through my fingers, I saw Hrundig stiffen. His hand was now gripping the sword tightly.
Angela—bless the girl—made her own desperate attempt.
"It must be someone else!" she piped. "Just a passing resemblance."
"It's Gwendolyn," rumbled Greyboar. "There isn't another woman in the world who looks like that. Besides, the paintings are perfect. Every detail. Even got—you remember, Ignace, that time you bit her when you were kids?—even got that little ragged scar on her left knee."
Suddenly, Jenny charged forward and planted herself before the strangler.
"You behave yourself, Greyboar!" she admonished. "We're having a pleasant afternoon and I won't stand for anything spoiling it!"
"That's right!" cried Angela. A moment later, she was standing next to Jenny, wagging her finger in Greyboar's face. "We won't stand for any of your roughneck ways!"
Benvenuti started laughing. Everyone stared at him.
"What's so funny?" demanded the girls.
"You are," he replied cheerfully. "You look like two mice lecturing a bear on table manners." He shook his head. The gesture expressed admiration combined with wonder.
Greyboar's face suddenly took on an actual expression. The Stare vanished, replaced by a peeved frown.
"I'd like to know why," he grumbled, "everybody seems convinced that I'm about to turn this place into a slaughterhouse."
"There's a bit of a body count in your past," said Hrundig.
"That's business," replied the strangler. A glance at Hrundig's hand, followed by an irritated shrug. "Oh, stop clutching that stupid sword, Hrundig. There's no need for it, and it probably wouldn't do you much good if there were."
"I imagine not," replied Hrundig. "Still—Benvenuti is my friend."
Greyboar looked up at Angela and Jenny—or, I should say, looked straight at them, for even seated his eyes were on a level with theirs. Suddenly, he grinned.
"Benvenuti's right. You do look like two mice lecturing on protocol."
The girls flushed. Greyboar took a deep breath and gazed up at the ceiling. "It was quite obvious that Gwendolyn never posed for those paintings, Ignace, so you could have saved us that ridiculous suggestion."
"Worth a try," I muttered.
Still staring at the ceiling, Greyboar sighed. "Ignace, not everyone in this world is as hot-tempered, choleric and pugnacious as you. Nor, Jenny and Angela, am I quite the homicidal maniac you seem to think I am. But, even if I were, I still wouldn't have done anything about those paintings."
His gaze dropped; he glanced toward Benvenuti's private room. "Only one person in the world scares me," he muttered, "and that's my sister. I imagine she'd take it badly, if I was to go out and do something like choke her former boyfriend on the grounds that he had sullied the family name." He grimaced. "Real badly."
He looked at Benvenuti, now, and for what seemed like endless seconds they stared at each other. I understood that stare. Two men, both of whom in their own way loved a woman, simply acknowledging that fact. I found myself swallowing. There were times—now and then—
When I found myself missing Gwendolyn. A lot.
The Cat came back into the room. She wasn't doing her usual drifting, though. She headed straight for Benvenuti. For an instant there, I could almost follow her progress.
"Is that it?" she demanded, pointing at the tablet on the chair.
Benvenuti nodded. The Cat picked up the sketches and studied them. Then she studied the artist.
"You're good," she pronounced. She looked back at the sketches. "Is that really what I look like?" Then, without waiting for an answer: "It's exactly what I feel like."
She transferred her stare to Greyboar. "You should see the portraits he has in the other room. They're wonderful. They really are. Not at all like the crap on the walls out here. The funny thing is, the woman in the paintings looks kind of like you, except she doesn't look like a gorilla."
"My sister, Gwendolyn," rumbled the strangler. Abruptly, he rose.
"Well, I believe our business here is done," he announced. "The Cat's happy, which is what matters."
Then—I almost laughed, here—Greyboar actually nodded very politely to the artist. Almost like one of your real upper-crust salon-type bows, that was.
"I thank you, Benvenuti." Greyboar hesitated, adding: "Someday, if you'd like, come visit me at The Trough. I—would like to hear about Gwendolyn."
"I will do so, then," replied the artist.
Greyboar turned and left, after ushering the Cat through the door. I started shooing Jenny and Angela after them, eager to make an escape.
"One moment, please," came Benvenuti's voice. We stopped and turned around.
The artist was smiling at Jenny and Angela. "The moment I saw the two of you," he said, "I wanted to do your portrait. Now, after witnessing your gallantry in my defense, I must insist. At no cost to yourselves, of course."
Jenny beamed. "Oh, that'd be great!" exclaimed Angela.
Well! I didn't think it was great!
"I don't know about this," I growled, in my best man-of-the-world tone. "Two innocent young girls—an artist—who knows what might—"
"Oh, shut up!" snapped Jenny.
"Yeah, what's your problem?" added Angela.
I bore up stoically under their childish complaints. "Well, you know, he'd probably want you to pose, you know, with your clothes off."
"And so what if he does?" demanded Angela.
"You always like us to pose with our clothes off," added Jenny.
I tried to think of a riposte. Alas, I failed. The only thought in my mind was: Ought to hang all artists. On general principle.
Fortunately, I had enough sense not to say it.
Benvenuti grinned, enjoying, I darkly suspected, my predicament.
"Actually," he said, "I wasn't thinking of a nude portrait. In fact, I wasn't thinking of any sort of formal poses. I would just like to try and capture your spirit, if I could. The two of you are like liquid sunshine."
"Oh, how sweet!" exclaimed Jenny, blushing. With her peaches-and-cream complexion, a blush made her look especially angelic. Angela smiled, like a sultry cherub. Then, to me, in a loud whisper: "You never say things like that to us."
I tried to think of a riposte. Failed.
"Let's be off!" I said, and started hustling the girls out the door. Over my shoulder, I glared at Benvenuti.
He shrugged. "I assure you, sirrah, my intentions are quite honorable."
I was not mollified. "Intentions be damned," I muttered. "Anybody who'd seduce Gwendolyn is out of his mind in the first place, so who knows what he'd do?"
On our way back, Jenny and Angela chattered cheerfully. The Cat stared at her sketches. Greyboar was silent. Lost in thoughts of Gwendolyn, I imagine, but I didn't ask.
I was too busy thinking my own silent thoughts.
Dark thoughts. Dark.
Despite what you might think, only some of my gloom was brought on by the prospect—inevitable, I could tell, from their chatter—that my two girls would soon be cavorting about in the studio of a damned artist who was not only the handsomest man I'd ever seen but had all the other accouterments, to boot.
But, mostly, my gloom was brought on by more general considerations. Almost philosophical, you might say, much as I hate the term.
I could feel the net of Fate closing in. Destiny's doom. The Kismet Kiss of Death.
Or, to put it in my crude layman's terms:
Shit kept happening, no matter what I tried to do. One damn thing after another. Philosophy! Leads to mad and reckless impulses. Leads to desperate flight. Desperate adventures. Hooking up with crazy women. Dragged back into the life of a crazy revolutionist sister. Mad artists.
Mad mad mad mad mad. All of it.
This is going to end badly. I just know it!
Those sorts of thoughts.
When we finally pulled up in front of Jenny and Angela's house, I tried to restore my usual good humor.
"Tomorrow—back to business!" I exclaimed cheerfully. "Enough of all that other stuff."
Greyboar shook his head. "Won't matter, Ignace. Entropy rules. There's no getting around it. It's just the second law of thermodynamics, that's all. The essence of the universe."
I grit my teeth.
"You'll see," he said stoically.
I ground my teeth.
Greyboar grinned. "You can refuse to recognize philosophy, Ignace, but philosophy recognizes you."