“What did he say?” she said, turning her head. My eyes followed her gaze. There, sitting on a stone slab, was the shambling giant who had emerged from the doorway and administered the final blows to the knifemen. A lunatic, it was now obvious. He began a wild and insane cackling.
“He wants to paint your portrait!” he howled. “A true Sfondrati-Piccolomini! Of the artistic branch! Can’t bear to die without painting his doom first—oh, marvelous. Marvelous!”
He wiped tears from his eyes, then babbled further.
“Really a much finer lot than my own clan, I’ll be the first to say it. Not such good scholars, the Sfondrati-Piccolominis, but you’ll never find such great mad artists among the Laebmauntsforscynneweëlds.”
“He wants to what?”
“Portrait,” I whispered. “Your portrait. You’re perfect. Just like you were before—in the fight.”
She gazed down at me. Slowly lowered her cleaver. Shook her head.
“You’re as crazy as he is,” she growled.
“Perhaps some introductions are in order,” said the giant in his oddly high-pitched voice. “I am Wolfgang Laebmauntsforscynneweëld, of the noted scholarly clan of that name. This magnificent lady with the great cleaver in her hand is Gwendolyn Greyboar, famous throughout Grotum for—”
“Shut up, Wolfgang! He’s an Ozarine, by the looks of him.”
“Well, of course he’s an Ozarine. As I was just about to say, Benvenuti Sfondrati-Piccolomini, of the noted scholarly clan of that name—and not just scholars! Oh no! Artists and condottiere galore! Come to Goimr to seek his fame and fortune.” Here he broke into a horrid cackling. “And they say I’m crazy!”
My feebleness was rapidly fading. I muscled myself up into a sitting position. In the process, I noticed that my wound had been expertly bandaged. Looking around, I saw that I was in a chamber hewn directly out of bare rock. Along one side was a stone bench, where Wolfgang was sitting. Behind him, bored into the rock wall, were some odd-looking holes. The chamber was otherwise bare, except for the entrance to a dim tunnel which loomed in the far wall. The woman leaned against the wall next to the tunnel.
“How do you know so much about me?” I demanded.
The giant stopped cackling and shrugged. “Well, I read the letters in your pocket, while Gwendolyn was bandaging you up. Quite impressive. An invitation from the King. A recommendation from the Consortium’s Director of Companies. A letter of—Gwendolyn!”
I turned, flinched. The woman was looming above me again, cleaver upraised.
“An Ozarine agent!” she raged. “A Consortium spy!”
“Nonsense!” boomed Wolfgang. “He’s an artist.”
“What kind of artist would have letters in his pocket from the Director of Companies?” hissed Gwendolyn.
“A Sfondrati-Piccolomini, of course. They didn’t get to be one of the two great learned clans in the world by being wallflowers, you know? Great self-promoters, the Sfondrati-Piccolominis—take it from a Laebmauntsforscynneweëld! Besides, the letter wasn’t even written by the Director. I recognized Giotto’s handwriting. Been corresponding with him for years. Oh, I’ve no doubt the Director’s signature was genuine enough. Never catch a Sfondrati-Piccolomini in outright forgery! And so what? The man must sign twenty letters like that a day. He’s not much better than a parvenu, the Director, and he knows full well that if he’s to take his place at the summit of Ozarine society he’s got to develop a reputation as a Patron of the Arts. It’s part of the plutocrat ritual.”
Gwendolyn was still frowning, that amazing frown. And it’s odd, looking back after all these years, how my life went off course so early. Can’t say as I regret it, mind you. But still, it’s odd. A young man’s heart is supposed to be caught by a young girl’s eye, or the smile on her lips, or the curve of her neck, or the toss of her hair.
At that very moment a faint sound was heard. Wolfgang held up his hand, motioning us silent. He pressed his ear to one of the holes in the wall behind him. A moment later Gwendolyn had joined him on the bench, her ear pressed to another hole. And it was but another moment before my ear was pressed to a third.