Legends

by Unknown Author

  But there were dark lines beneath Richard Reynaud’s fingernails, and that mustache failed to hide the flash of a gold cap on one of Rey-naud’s upper front teeth as he grinned unpleasantly at the impassive LeBeau.

  “Mutie,” the other man whispered, enjoying the sound of the word. “I always said that was the only reason you got anywhere.”

  “Oh, p’rhaps a little knack for picking d’locks has somet’ing to do wit’ it, noriT' LeBeau said, deliberately sluning his words with a thicker-than-usual overlay of his native Cajun accent.

  Predictably, the mangling of his beloved mother tongue outraged Reynaud even more than LeBeau’s bland fa£ade.

  “Merde,” he said at last. “Why have you come here, mutie? I know you. I know every job you’ve done—and haven’t done—in the past three years. And lately you haven’t done anything at all, have you?”

  While the other man, of course, had made at least seven major scores in the past three years. Remy LeBeau, the mutant called Gambit, silently recounted them to himself. Old Master paintings, gold, jewels, objets d’art. Yes, Richard Reynaud had done quite well for himself.

  While he, Gambit, had been rather distracted of late. Never even finished his last job; there had been a little matter of saving a whitehaired child from the Shadow King. And since then . . .

  “Retired, have you?” Reynaud said.

  Behind him, Gambit saw Madelaine peek out of the restaurant doorway, catch sight of Reynaud, hesitate and withdraw. A young couple, newlyweds, based on their billing and cooing, came into the patio and took a table at the far end, nuzzling and giggling together.

  “That’s why you’ve come, isn’t it? To finally admit which of us is the better man?”

  Gambit’s eyebrow climbed very high indeed. “De better man, mon amP. Dere is no question, I t’ink!”

  Reynaud’s face turned bright red as he leaned across the table. “You come here time after time to celebrate your successes, mon ami, to throw them in my face, but this time you have nothing to celebrate. I have said for years that you are a freak, a mistake, a blight on our profession. Your ridiculous Guild, your joke of a family—”

  LeBeau raised a warning hand, and the other man sat back.

  “You know better dan to bring de Guild into dis,” he said, very mildly. Not to mention—so he did not—his family.

  Reynaud snorted. “This is my territory, and you know it, LeBeau. You’ve been coming here for years to gloat. But you’re a mutie and a disgrace. You couldn’t even—” he spluttered, searching for a sufficiently degrading action, and looked wildly around, finally focusing on the couple across the courtyard. “You couldn’t even steal that woman’s wedding ring!”

  Despite himself, Gambit found himself glancing in the woman’s direction. She was flaunting a very nice set of rings indeed, with diamonds that caught and broke the light into rainbows. He noticed her shoes and dress, its hem a bit frayed.

  “Dey’ve put all leur argent into dose rings,” he observed softly. “Every penny.”

  Reynaud snorted. “Let me guess. You think it’s not galantl They’re little fools with jewels too good for them. And you’re a fool as well. Look at you, the famous LeBeau, the famous Gambit. Mutant. You can’t do it.” He got to his feet, the chair sliding back across the cobbles with a shriek of abused iron. “I still say you came to acknowledge your master.”

  “Je vous verrai dans I’enfer d’abord,” Gambit responded pleasantly. I’ll see you in hell first. He could speak good French, Parisian even, when he chose.

  Reynaud snorted and stalked away.

  “C ... coffee, m ’sieuT Madelaine was not at all certain of her reception.

  “Merci.”

  But he wasn’t really seeing her. He wasn’t even really seeing the couple across the courtyard, who finally noticed the red-eyed man staring blankly at them and decided to take their affection indoors.

  He was seeing Xavier’s blue eyes. Storm’s. The fiery, passionate Rogue. The short, massive bundle of outrage that was Wolverine, the annoyingly righteous Scott Summers.

  They were mutants, all of them. No one there had found anything remarkable about his red and black eyes, his ability to channel bioki-netic energy. They all had mutant abilities of their own, and he was one of them. He was welcome to be one of them. One of Xavier’s X-Men.

  Except he wasn’t, of course. He was Gambit—thief, scion of the Thieves’ Guild of New Orleans, acknowledged among them as one of the very best.

  Of course, behind his back they called him mutie, but never to his face.

  The X-Men were devoted to the principle that mutants and nonmutants could live together in peace, that justice could be accorded to all. As a thief, he found that tres amuser, and not, perhaps, the most desirable of situations.

  But it was an oddly appealing idea, all the same: a world in which it would never occur to Reynaud to raise the issue, in which Remy would never have to talk smooth and convincing to the girls like Made-laine to persuade them to overlook his bloodred eyes.

  He spent the day walking in the hills, climbing up and down among the vines of Languedoc, touching the new green leaves with the tips of sensitive fingers, kicking at pebbles. From the ridgeline he could see the rooftops of St. Chinien, red against white, blue against gray, and spangled with all the colors of flowers.

  Up above the town, a grand and too-modem chateau distorted the skyline. Reynaud’s, of course. He was slime, but he was successful slime. And Reynaud, the fox, was right—one of Remy’s pleasures in coming to St. Chinien was to annoy the fool. He had overlooked that this time.

  He didn’t have to spend the rest of his life dueling for price of place with such as that. He sat on the rocks overlooking the vineyards, feeling the caress of soft summer wind ruffling his long hair, running coins back and forth across his knuckles, and thought about his life.

  They didn’t know all about him, those X-Men. They might not be so welcoming if they knew. He was a thief, after all. A master thief. The master thief.

  Of course, he didn’t know all about them, either. Fair enough. He was used to keeping secrets, and used to dealing with others who kept theirs.

  And this quixotic tilting at bigotry, well, he’d always been suspiciously fond of lost causes and helpless—hopeless—battles. It appealed to his sense of honor, or at least his sense of humor. He could give it a try.

  He doubted Xavier would countenance his other life.

  He could change.

  He could change. He didn’t have to remain the man who—who had done some of the things he had done. And this was a chance. N’donnez j’rnais sur un occasion, his foster father would say, in his soft Cajun mother tongue. Never overlook an opportunity. In their business it would be a sin.

  Remy LeBeau occasionally liked to sin, but even he drew the line sometimes.

  A ten-franc piece went spinning across the sky, to explode in a joyous eruption of biokinetic sparks.

  “ Vo us devrez enregistrer cette rnatiere a la police! ”

  Despite knowing perfectly well that he was completely innocent— this time, at least—Gambit flinched at the words that greeted his entrance to the little hotel. Report what matter to the police?

  The tiny lobby of the hotel was cramped at the best of times, with barely enough room for the registration desk, the cubbyholes for keys and messages behind it, Madelaine’s father acting as registrar and concierge. The area in front of the desk was decorated with a worn rug and one single overstuffed chair. Now, with the hysterical newlyweds alternately clinging to each other and pounding on the desk, there was no room at all.

  “Please, sir, madame, you must call the police.”

  “No!” the woman cried. She was not one of those made beautiful by her tears, Gambit noticed. “No, it was the girl, it had to be the girl, bring her here, ask her! I saw her looking—”

  She was flailing her left hand against the desk, slapping it hard, then spinning around to grab her new husband, collapsing into a mascara-s
treaked soggy mess and his arms.

  “I’m sorry,” her husband apologized. “It’s just that the rings—they were all we had—”

  “Madame, we will bring the police. My daughter has nothing to do with this.” Le pere was being very firm and remarkably self-possessed, Gambit thought.

  Le pere looked over the heads of the newlyweds, and his gaze met Gambit’s. For an instant he looked angry, and perhaps even disappointed.

  The man knew what he was, Gambit realized. The look of disgust wasn’t for Gambit the mutant, it was for Remy LeBeau the thief.

  He had never, never stolen anything in St. Chinien. It was his safe place, his refuge. He did not foul his own nest.

  But there was someone who would. His lips tightened, and he

  returned the look straight on, nodded once, and stepped back out into the world.

  The saying goes that there is honor among thieves. Gambit had never been quite sure what that was supposed to mean. Within his own Guild, of course, one took it for granted that one treated the Brothers, like, well, brothers.

  But for Richard Reynaud, who would rob a bride of her wedding ring, well, honor was not a concept that quite applied.

  And if Reynaud thought it was a concept that would protect him from a thoroughly irritated Remy LeBeau, he was wrong.

  The entrance to the Villa Reynaud was marked by a pair of columns topped by foxes. They weren’t carved out of marble; Gambit could see the fur ruffling in the wind.

  He could also see the marks of birds splattered across the russet and white hair. The foxes were stuffed, maybe even freeze-dried. Once, when originally put in place, they might have been startlingly lifelike. Now they looked ragged and just as well pleased to be dead.

  The front gate stood ajar, unusual in this part of the world. Gambit studied the inviting opening for a moment or two, then looked up to the moth-eaten foxes. Glass eyes stared back down at him. He was reasonably sure that behind those eyes were camera lenses, in which case he was already on film. Not that the prospect bothered him; he’d already starred in several such films. The trick was to find out whether he already had an audience.

  “What the hell,” he muttered to himself, and pushed the gate open wide enough to let himself in.

  The front garden showed the same impeccable taste as the front columns. A pile of black plastic bags, presumably filled with trash, came nearly to the top of the wall. Several rakes and shovels were leaning crazily against the house wall or scattered on the ground. A gardener stared down at some weeds growing between slabs of pavement, as if seriously considering doing something about them, someday. He glanced up at Gambit and then shook his head, as if the whole idea of weeding was entirely unreasonable.

  Gambit nodded pleasantly and walked around toward the back of the house, as if he knew precisely where he was going. He’d never been to Reynaud’s home before, but that made no difference at all.

  He passed seven large double windows along the side of the house before coining to a discreet white door. The back garden, he was glad to see, was in somewhat better condition.

  The door was locked, at least for a moment or two. He let himself in and found he was alone in the laundry room. It smelled of soap and bleach and mildew.

  Most robberies took place during the daylight hours, for the very good reason that there were usually fewer people around during the day than at night. Gambit could reasonably expect that Reynaud would be elsewhere during the day as well—he wasn’t the type to spend a lovely day indoors.

  His only real concern, in fact, was that Reynaud might not have dropped off the rings before taking off for the day.

  He swept through the house, room by room, tossing each one with the ease of long practice. Twice he interrupted housemaids at their work, at least once restoring an armful of clean linens that the flustered grandmother had dropped at the sight of the stranger in the inner sanctum. She was smiling at him, confused but obscurely flattered, as he bowed his way out of her sight and into the next room.

  Time. Even in the daytime, Reynaud would have alarms set. Each time he opened a door he ran the risk of setting them off, or worse. Surely one of the maids, or the gardener, or someone, had already called the police. He moved faster.

  Hallway. Stairs. Bedroom, not in use. Library, with row upon row of perfectly color-coordinated books. A rather grand bath. Water closet. More bedrooms—all sterile, all empty. Evidently M’sieu le Fox had no Madame and no kits with whom to share his den—a pity, that.

  He moved soundlessly through the house, checking briefly before entering each room, an unconscious smile dancing around his lips as he breathed deeply, waiting for discovery. His search was rapid, sure, and as each room was throughly inspected his smile widened.

  And then one last bedroom, this one freshly made up. A pair of handlasted shoes were aligned neatly at the edge of a silk rug. The top of the armoire showed scratches under the gleam. This bedroom, unlike the others, had a regular occupant. And at the far end of the room was yet another closed door.

  He reached for the handle, and paused. The knob was brass, worn, had evidently seen years, perhaps centuries of use. All the other fittings in the house were less than twenty years old.

  Even if someone had been watching the video cameras at that moment, he would have missed the gesture that caused the playing card to appear between Gambit’s fingers. Holding it between the first two fingers of one hand, he tapped the edge against his thumb, contemplating. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he tossed the card against the door.

  Nothing happened. The card, lacking any biokinetic charge, rapped edgewise against the brass doorknob and slid, slightly dented, to the floor.

  A shout from the garden announced that his time was running out. He reached for the knob—and yanked his hand back with a gutteral Cajun curse as it sparked just before vulnerable flesh came in contact with lethal metal.

  He could hear more sounds now from outside the room. There wasn’t any time for finesse; he kicked out, a la savate, and shattered the wood of the door—pressboard it was, instead of the solid heart oak that beautiful doorknob deserved, and just as well, too, for the sake of his foot.

  Alarms, silent and audible, went off at last. Someone—surely not the grandmother?—screamed. Gambit spared the bedroom door one glance and reached through the hole, opening the mysterious door from the inside.

  That evening, Remy LeBeau chose to eat inside the restaurant, the better to admire the newlyweds exclaiming between every bite at the jewels glistening on the young woman’s hand.

  “She is very pretty, m ’sieu” Madelaine remarked as she took away the soup plate and replaced it with a very nice brace of ortolans.

  “Every new bride is beautiful, ma cherie.” He smiled at her. His smile widened as Reynaud loomed up behind her. Madelaine squeaked and scurried away.

  “You pig,” Reynaud snarled, staring past him at the newlyweds. “I should have you arrested.”

  “Ah, I t’ink not. Les gendarmes would be so very interested in all I have to say, after all.” Gambit shook out a fresh napkin and placed it delicately in his lap. “Would you care to join me? De food is superb.”

  “Thief.”

  The incongruity of it caught even Gambit by surprise, and he laughed out loud. “I? Ah, it’s not stealing to recover de goods, mon ami”

  “Then worse,” Reynaud spluttered, “you’re not a thief, and so I shall tell your Guild!” Baffled at Gambit’s laughter, rich and loud in the tiny dining room, he spun on his heel and walked out.

  “Ah, no,” Gambit murmured to himself. “X-Man or not, I t’ink 1 never give up dis game, mon ami. ’S too much fun.” He turned to look at the newlyweds, and winked long at the bride, raising his wineglass in a toast. The groom glanced back and forth between Gambit and his new wife, a light of suspicion dawning, and Gambit laughed again as she distracted him with more gushing over the glistening ring.

  Some things don’t ever change, he thought, still smiling, thinking of
the ransom for the jewels that adorned her slender hand. Once a thief, always a thief. Even when the only thing I steal today is a kiss.

  See Prince

  K.A. Kindya

  Jubilation Lee had no idea how much trouble it would cause when she made the simple decision to go roller-blading.

  Things had been quiet for the X-Men for a change. No mutant super-villains had reared their heads recently. Some of the residents of Professor Xavier’s mansion had gone on much-needed vacations. Wolverine had slunk off in the night on one of his unannounced spiritual quests. Jubilee, meanwhile, chose a warm autumn day to skate around the mansion property and enjoy the golden sunlight and colorful leaves.

  Clad in her typical shorts and T-shirt, and clutching her skates, she sauntered into the living room. She found Jean Grey and Rogue, dressed in slouchy sweats, sprawled on the couch. They were staring at the television.

  “Hey, guys,” Jubilee called, walking over. “What’s with you two glued to the boob tube? You’re always getting on my case about how much TV I watch.”

  Jean, without taking her eyes off the screen, said, “This is a special tape. We’ve been waiting for a spare moment to watch it.”

  The teenaged Asian peered at the screen. “Ack! What is this?” “Wide World of Sports,” Rogue said. “It’s a report on the first major figure skatin’ competitition of the season. It’s coming up in about a week.”

  Jubilee rolled her eyes. “Figure skating?” She sniffed derisively. “How can you two watch something so wussy? It’s a bunch of girly-girls in pink tutus, wearing too much makeup, making pretty-pretty poses for the judges ..

  “That’s not what it’s like at all,” Jean said.

  “Yeah,” Rogue put in. “It’s hard work, and tough exercise.”

  “And it’s not a beauty pageant,” Jean said. “Skaters train for years to do those jumps. They lift weights to build their muscles. It takes incredible strength. I’ve been watching skating since I was a kid, and it always impresses me.”