Spell of Intrigue | Page 2

hair that
cascaded in curls past his shoulders, and a light brown mustache to
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