Spell of Intrigue | Page 2

match. He wore a cloak of severe, high-collared cut but of expensive weave and fabric. A set of reading glasses slouched low on his nose; a wide-brimmed hat wound with fur trim rested on the table beside him. He was, in short, a merchant, and not a struggling one.
"No, Meester Groot," said his companion. "Companion," of course, would by all accepted standards of the day have been too strong a word, implying a degree of social equality to which even enlightened merchants would rarely lower themselves. The relationship between Haalsen Groot and his employees, though, was scarcely typical, since the esteemed Meester Groot did not restrict his activities - or his colleagues - to those a scrupulously proper merchant might assume without reproach. The third member of the tableau, the recumbent one, provided ample illustration of this point.
Admittedly, Haalsen Groot was no colossus. Nevertheless, for a figure half again as tall as Meester Groot, the mass and bulk of the man on the cot should have been proportionately greater as well. Where one would have expected only the sleek curves of corded muscles, though, the sight of stretched, somewhat mangy skin and the protruding angles of bones, sunken cheeks and hollowed eye sockets betrayed a barbarian swordsman far from home and lost in the strange convolutions of civilization. He had yet to open his eyes. Instead, he was spending his time and energy on the occasional fever chill, uncontrollably chattering his teeth and contorting his body into strange representations of the fetal position, as perhaps illustrated by one of the members of the Nightmare Realism school of modern painters. Following this line of thought, Meester Groot commented, "Life may be life, but aesthetics are certainly aesthetics," to which his clerk replied, as was his habit, "Indeed so, sir." The barbarian interrupted with a deep liquid cough, a fine froth of pink bubbles appearing on his lips.
"You are sure you found the right man," Meester Groot said suddenly.
"He was booked under the name of Svin," said the clerk methodically. "The arrest record listed his last job as caravan guard, so the circumstances would seem appropriate. Once fed, cleaned, and healed, he'll most likely match the description as well; he is fairly distinctive for this far south. Should I make further inquiries?"
"No, Julio, I take no exception with your effort. I suppose you'd best send for the doctor. Sounding a bit tubercular, our friend here, don't you think?"
"Indeed so. I expect the physic momentarily." Julio gave a cough of his own, but a much more discreet and refined one. "Do you have any idea why Meester Maximillian wanted you to secure this particular specimen, sir?"
Haalsen Groot kept his gaze on the barbarian as he spoke, but, behind their lenses, his eyes appeared to be looking somewhere else entirely. "To Max, adventuring is an improvisational art. He likes to have a varietal selection of raw materials at hand from which to mold." He also has a streak of excess sentimentality, Meester Groot reminded himself, as well as a certain philosophy of the world. Most likely he met this fellow on that caravan in his recent resume and thought he could make a modern man out of him. Whatever the exact details of his interest in Svin, here, Max was rousing himself to more activity than Groot had seen in years. Events threatened to become intriguing. These events to come would not be safe, perhaps, and they would be (most likely) ill-advised, but they would certainly not be boring. He reminded himself to order more sandbags.
Bellowing an inchoate battle cry in an impressive display of sheer vocal power, the former Lion of the Oolvaan Plain pushed off his perch on the heavy iron chandelier, dislodging half-a-dozen lit candles in the process, and plunged downward, his massive sword twirling lethally around his body. His opponent, who had been peering inquisitively around the room trying to determine what the Lion might be up to this time, brought his own rapier into line. As the Lion descended, his mightily thewed legs curling into a crouch beneath him, his adversary's blade caught him in a sharp rap behind the calves, introducing an unexpected element of angular momentum. The Lion began to revolve backward, the floor came up as his opponent stepped smartly out of the way, and with an unwelcome thud he found himself flat on his back looking up at the expanding formation of still-flaming candles following him like dying comets toward the boards. The tip of a rapier appeared in his field of vision, blurring into a glint of red highlights as it caught the reflections of guttering fire. Pieces of candles bounced away to all sides.
The sounds of swishing and slicing died. The Lion moistened the thumb and forefinger of one hand against his lips