by Eric Flint
* * *
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.)