Crimson Shadow - The Sword Of Bedwyr Part 17

Luthien blinked curiously when he looked at Oliver, but it didn't take the young man long to realize that Oliver had seen through his sad frown.

He looked away quickly, and that nonverbal response told Oliver more than any words ever could.

"Tragic! Tragic!" the halfling wailed, falling into a chair and sweeping his arm over his eyes dramatically. "Always this is tragic!" His movements s.h.i.+fted the chair, knocking it against a pedestal, and Oliver had to react quickly to catch the pewter halfling figurine as it started to tumble to the floor.

"What are you speaking of?" Luthien demanded, not in the mood for any cryptic games.

"I am speaking of you, you silly boy," Oliver replied. He paused for a few moments, dusting off the pedestal and replacing his trophy. Then, with no response apparently forthcoming, he turned a serious expression upon Luthien.

"You have been searching for the meaning of life," Oliver stated, and Luthien eyed him doubtfully. "I only lament that you choose to find it in the form of a woman."

Luthien's expression became a fierce scowl. He started to respond, started to rise up from his chair, but Oliver waved a hand at him absently and cut him off.

"Oh, do not deny it," the halfling said. "I have seen this very thing too many times before. Courtly love, we call it in Gascony."

Luthien settled back down in the chair. "I have no idea of what you are talking about," he a.s.sured Oliver, and to emphasize his point, he looked away, looked out the partially opened door.

"Courtly love," Oliver said again, firmly. "You have seen this beauty and you are smitten. You are angry now because we have not returned to the market, because you have not had the opportunity to glimpse her beauty again."

Luthien bit hard on his lip, but did not have the conviction to deny the words.

"She is your heart's queen, and you will fight for her, champion any cause in her name, throw your cloak over a puddle of mud in her path, throw your chest in front of an arrow racing toward her."

"I will throw my hand into your face," Luthien answered seriously.

"Of course you are embarra.s.sed," Oliver replied, seeming not at all concerned, "because you know how stupid you sound." Luthien looked at him directly, an open threat, but still the halfling was undeterred. "You do not even know this woman, this half-elf. She is beautiful, I would not argue, but you have imagined everything, every quality you desire, as part of her, when all you really know is her appearance."

Luthien managed a slight chuckle; the halfling was right, he knew. Logically, at least, Luthien was acting ridiculous. But he couldn't deny his feelings, not in his heart. He had seen the green-eyed half-elf for perhaps a minute, and yet that vision had been with him ever since, in waking hours and dreams alike. Now, discussed openly in the bright air of a s.h.i.+ning morning, his obsession sounded ridiculous.

"You seem to possess a great deal of knowledge on this subject," Luthien accused, and Oliver's mouth turned up into a wistful smile. "Personal knowledge," Luthien ended wryly.

"Perhaps," was the strongest admission Oliver would offer.

They let it go at that, Luthien sitting quietly and Oliver busying himself in rearranging the many trophies they had acquired. Luthien didn't notice it, but many times that morning, Oliver's expression would brighten suddenly, as though the halfling was reliving fond memories, or Oliver would grimace in heartfelt pain, as though some of the memories were, perhaps, not so pleasant.

Sometime later, Oliver tossed his winter coat across Luthien's lap. "It is ruined!" he wailed and lifted up one sleeve to show Luthien a tear in the fabric.

Luthien studied the cut carefully. It had been made by something very sharp, he knew, something like Oliver's main gauche, for instance. The weather had been unseasonably warm the last few days, even after sunset, and as far as Luthien could remember, the halfling had not worn this coat at all. Curious that it should be torn, and curious that Oliver should find that tear now, with the sun bright and the air unseasonably warm.

"I will throw it out to the greedy children," the halfling growled, hands on hips and face turned into one of the most profound pouts Luthien had ever witnessed. "Of course, this weather will not hold so warm. Come along, then," he said, grabbing his lighter cloak and moving for the door. "We must go back to market that I might buy another one."

Luthien didn't have to be asked twice.

They spent the day in the bustling market, Oliver perusing goods and Luthien, predictably, watching the crowd. The thief of the young man's heart did not show herself, though.

"I have found nothing of proper value," Oliver announced at the end of the day. "There is one merchant-type who will be in a better bargaining mood tomorrow, though. Of this much, I am sure."

Luthien's disappointment vanished, and as the young man followed his halfling friend out of the market, his expression regarding the halfling was truly appreciative. He knew what Oliver was up to, knew that the halfling was truly sympathetic to his feelings. If Luthien had held any doubts that Oliver's lecture concerning "courtly love" was founded in personal experience, they were gone now.

They went through a similar routine at the market the next day, breaking for lunch at one of the many food kiosks. Oliver carried on a light conversation, mostly about the shortcomings of merchant-types: winter was near at hand and he had found little luck in reducing any of the prices for warm coats.

It took the halfling some time to realize that Luthien wasn't listening to him at all and wasn't even eating the biscuit he held in his hand. The halfling studied Luthien curiously and understood before he even followed the young man's fixed stare across the plaza. There stood the half-elven slave girl, along with her merchant master and his entourage.

Oliver winced when the half-elf looked up from under her wheat-colored tresses, returning Luthien's stare, even flas.h.i.+ng a coy smile the young man's way. The worldly halfling understood the implications of that response, understood the trials that might soon follow.

Oliver winced again when the merchant, noticing that his slave had dared to look up without his permission, stepped over and slapped the back of her head.

The halfling jumped on Luthien before he even started to rise, blurting out a dozen reasons why they would be foolish to go over to the merchant at that time. Fortunately for the halfling, several of the people nearby knew him and Luthien from the Dwelf and quickly came over to help out, recognizing that trouble might be brewing.

Only when a group of Praetorian Guards came over to investigate did the fiery young Bedwyr calm down.

"All is well," Oliver a.s.sured the suspicious cyclopians. "My friend, he found a c.o.c.k'a'roach in his biscuit, but it is gone now, and c.o.c.k'a'roaches, they do not eat so much."

The Praetorian Guards slowly moved away, looking back dangerously with every step.

When they were out of sight, Luthien burst free of the many hands holding him and stood up-only to find that the merchant and his group had moved along.

Oliver had to enlist the aid of the helpful men to "convince" Luthien, mostly by dragging him, to go back to the apartment. But after the helpful group had gone, the young Bedwyr stormed about like a caged lion, kicking over chairs and banging his fists on the walls.

"I really expected much better from you," Oliver remarked dryly, standing by the pedestal to protect his treasured halfling warrior figurine from the young man's tirade.

Luthien leaped across the room to stand right in front of the halfling. "Find out who he is!" the young Bedwyr demanded.

"Who?" Oliver asked.

Luthien's arm flashed forward, snapping up the figurine, and he c.o.c.ked his arm back as if he meant to throw the statue across the room. The sincerely terrified expression on Oliver's face told him that the halfling would play no more coy games.

"Find out who he is and where he lives," Luthien said calmly.

"This is not so smart," Oliver replied, tentatively reaching for the figurine. Luthien jerked his arm up higher, moving the trophy completely out of the little one's reach.

"It might even be a trap," Oliver reasoned. "We have seen that many merchant-types wish us captured. They might suspect that you are the Crimson Shadow, and might have found the perfect bait."

"Bait like this?" Luthien replied, indicating the statue.

"Exactly," Oliver said cheerily, but his bright expression quickly descended into gloom when he realized Luthien's point. The previous danger hadn't stopped Oliver from lifting the bait from the hook.

The halfling threw his hands up in defeat. "Lover-types," he grumbled under his breath, storming out of the apartment and pointedly slamming the door behind him. But Oliver was truly a romantic, and he was smiling again by the time he climbed the stairs back to the street level.

Chapter 18.

NOT SO MUCH A SLAVE.

"I cannot talk you out of this?" Oliver asked when he returned late that afternoon to find Luthien pacing the small apartment anxiously.

Luthien stopped and fixed a determined stare upon the halfling.

"Stealing co-ins and jew-wels is one thing," the halfling went on. "Stealing a slave is something quite different."

Luthien didn't blink.

Oliver sighed.

"Stubborn fool," the halfling lamented. "Very well, then. We are in some luck, it would seem. The merchant-type's house lies in the northwestern section of town, just south of the road to Port Charley. There are not so many guards up there and the wall has not yet even been completed about these new houses. Lesser merchant-types, mostly. But still they will have guards, and you can be death-sure that, in stealing a slave, you will put Duke Morkney and all of his Praetorian Guards on our tail. When we go ..."

"Tonight," Luthien clarified, and again, the defeated halfling sighed.

"Then tonight might be our last night in the hospitable city of Montfort," Oliver explained. "And we will be on the road with winter licking at the backs of our boots."

"So be it."

"Stubborn fool," Oliver grumbled, and he moved across the floor to his bedroom and slammed the door behind him.

They got to the alley beside the merchant's house, a fine two-story L-shaped stone structure with many small balconies and windows, without incident. Oliver continued to express his doubts and Luthien continued to ignore him. The young man had found a purpose in life, something that went beyond discarding winter coats where the poor children of Tiny Alcove might find them. He thought himself the proverbial knight in s.h.i.+ning armor, the perfect hero who would rescue his lady from the evil merchant.

He never thought to ask if she needed rescuing.

The house was quiet-all the area was quiet, for few thieves bothered to come this way and thus few guards patrolled the streets. A single candle showed through one of the house's windows, on the short side of the "L." Luthien led Oliver to the wall of the darker section, the main section.

"I cannot talk you out of this?" Oliver asked one final time. When Luthien scowled at him, he tossed his magical grapnel, which caught above a balcony and just below the roof. This time Oliver went first, fearing to let the anxious Luthien up on that balcony without him. The way the young man was behaving, Oliver feared he would crash through the doorway, slaughter everybody in the house, then walk up to the Ministry, woman in arms, and demand that Duke Morkney himself p.r.o.nounce them married!

The halfling made the balcony and slipped over to the door. Confident that no one was about, he came back to the rail to signal for Luthien to follow.

Oliver wasn't really surprised to see the young Bedwyr already halfway up and climbing furiously.

He would have hissed out a scolding at his impetuous companion, but something else caught the halfling's attention. Looking across the courtyard to a window showing the flicker of a candle, Oliver saw a woman-the beautiful slave, he knew from her long tresses, s.h.i.+ning l.u.s.trously even in the dim light. The halfling watched curiously as the woman tucked that hair up under a black cap, then picked up a bundle, blew out the candle, and moved for the window.

Luthien's hand came over the top of the railing and the young Bedwyr began to pull himself up. He was stopped as he straddled the railing by the smiling halfling, Oliver motioning for him to look over his shoulder.

A makes.h.i.+ft rope, a line of tied bedsheets, hung from window to ground, and a lithe form, dressed in gray and black, similar to Oliver's thieving clothes, nimbly made its way down.

Luthien's lips tightened into a grimace. Some thief had dared to break into the house of his love!

Oliver didn't miss the expression and understood where the anger was coming from. He put a hand on Luthien's shoulder, turning the young man to face him, then put a finger over his pursed lips.

The lithe form dropped to the ground and slipped off into the shadows.

"Well?" Oliver asked, indicating the rope.

Luthien didn't understand.

"Are you going back down?" the halfling asked. "We have no more business here."

Luthien looked at him curiously for a moment, then blinked in amazement and snapped his gaze across the small courtyard. When he looked back to Oliver, the halfling was smiling widely and nodding.

Luthien slid down the rope, and Oliver followed quickly, fearing that the young man would run off into the night. Oliver's humor about the unexpected turn of events faded quickly as he began to understand that even though this slave was apparently not what she appeared to be, this might be a long and difficult evening.

The halfling hit the ground, gave three tugs to retrieve his grapnel, and ran off after Luthien, catching the man two blocks away.

Luthien stood at a corner, peeking around the stone into an alley. Oliver slipped in between his legs and peeked around from a lower vantage point.

There stood the half-elven slave-there could be no doubt now, for she had removed the cap and was shaking out her wheat-colored tresses. With her were two others, one as tall as Luthien but much more slender, the other the woman's size.

Luthien looked down at Oliver at the same time the halfling turned his head to look up at Luthien.

"Fairborn," the halfling mouthed silently, and Luthien, though he had little experience with elves, nodded his agreement.

Luthien let Oliver, more versed in the ways of trailing, lead as they followed the group to the richer section of Montfort. The young Bedwyr could not deny the obvious, but still he was surprised when the three elves slipped into a dark alley, set a rope and quietly entered the second-story window of a dark house.

"She does not need your help," Oliver remarked in Luthien's ear. "Leave this alone, I beg."

Luthien could not find the words to argue against Oliver's solid logic. The woman did not need his help, so it appeared, but he would not, could not, leave this alone. He pushed Oliver away and kept his gaze locked on the window.

The three came back out in a short time-they were efficient at their craft-one of them carrying a sack. Down to the alley they went, and the slave woman gave a deft snap of the rope that dislodged the conventional grappling hook.

Oliver dove into the fold of Luthien's cape, and Luthien fell back motionless against the wall as the three came rus.h.i.+ng out, pa.s.sing barely five feet from the friends. Luthien wanted to reach out and grab the half-elf, confront her there and then. He resisted the urge with help from Oliver, who, apparently sensing his companion's weakness, had prudently grabbed a tight hold on both of Luthien's hands. As soon as the three elven thieves were safely away, Oliver and Luthien took up the chase all the way back to the northwestern section.

The three parted company in the same place they had met, the other two taking the sack and the slave heading back for her master's house.

"Leave this alone, I beg," Oliver whispered to Luthien, though the halfling knew beyond doubt that his plea was falling on deaf ears. Luthien didn't have to trail the woman now, knowing her destination, so he slipped ahead instead. He ducked behind the last corner before the merchant's house, melted under the folds of his cape and waited.

The woman came by, perfectly silent, walking with the practiced footsteps of a seasoned thief. She moved right past the camouflaged Luthien, glanced both ways along the street and started across.

"Not so much a slave," Luthien remarked, lifting his head to regard her.

He nearly jumped out of his boots at the sheer speed of the half-elf's movements. She whipped about, a short sword coming out of nowhere, and Luthien shrieked and ducked, the metal blade clicking off the stone above his head. Luthien tried to move to the side, but the woman paced him easily, her sword flas.h.i.+ng deftly.

In the blink of an eye, Luthien was standing straight again, his back to the wall, the tip of a sword at his throat.

"That would not be so wise," came Oliver's comment from behind the woman.

"Perhaps not," came a melodic, elven voice from behind the halfling.

Oliver sighed again and managed a glance over his shoulder. There stood one of the woman's companions, grim-faced, sword in hand and its tip not so far from the halfling's back. A bit to the side, further down the alley, stood the other female, bow in hand, an arrow trained upon Oliver's head.

"I could be wrong," the halfling admitted. He slowly slid his rapier back into its sheath, then even more slowly, allowing the elf to watch his every move, reached for a pouch and produced his hat, fluffing it and plopping it on his head.

The woman's green eyes bored into Luthien's stunned expression. "Who are you to follow me so?" she demanded, her jaw firm, her expression grave.

"Oliver," Luthien prompted, not knowing what he should say.

"He is a stubborn fool," the halfling gladly put in.