“Take your order?” the gargoyle asked politely, the smile never twitching.
“Urn …” I said taking a step back. “I’ll have to think about it. There’s so much to choose from.”
In actuality I couldn’t read the menu … if that’s what it was. There was something etched in the wall behind the gargoyle in a language I couldn’t decipher. I assume it was a menu because the prices weren’t etched in the wall, but written in chalk over many erasures.
The gargoyle shrugged.
“Suit yourself,” he said indifferently. “When you make up your mind, just holler. The name’s Gus.”
“I’ll do that . . . Gus,” I smiled, backing slowly toward the door.
Though it was my intent to exit quietly and wait outside with Gleep, things didn’t work out that way. Before I had taken four steps, a hand fell on my shoulder.
“Skeeve, isn’t it?” a voice proclaimed.
I spun around, or started to. I was brought up short when my sword banged into a table leg. My head kept moving, however, and I found myself face to face with an Imp.
“Brockhurst!” I exclaimed, recognizing him immediately.
“I thought I recognized you when you . . . hey!” The Imp took a step backward and raised his hands defensively. “Take it easy! I’m not looking for any trouble.”
My hand had gone to my sword hilt in an involuntary effort to free it from the table leg. Apparently Brockhurst had interpreted the gesture as an effort to draw my weapon.
That was fine by me. Brockhurst had been one of Isstvan’s lieutenants, and we hadn’t parted on the best of terms. Having him a little afraid of my “ready sword” was probably a good thing.