When the carriage dropped us off in front of the studio, his remarks became clear. Benvenuti’s studio was located on the second floor of a grim-looking gray building. The first floor was occupied by a salle d’armes.
Hrundig’s salle d’armes, in point of fact.
Awkward.
“I thought you said you didn’t know the place,” grumbled Greyboar.
“He moved,” I snapped. “This isn’t the joint I cased out. That was over—”
Greyboar waved his hand. “Never mind, never mind.”
We stood there for a moment, staring at the door.
“He kept the same sign, though,” I muttered.
Oh, there was no doubt about it. Not the sort of sign you forget, especially when its owner is someone you’ve been approached to give the big squeeze.
Learn the brutal martial arts of Alsask!
The Thrusts! The Chops! The Strokes!
Study Impromptu Amputation!
Develop Disemboweling Skills!
Master of arms: Hrundig, Barbarian of Alsask,
Veteran of the Ozarean Legions.
Greyboar shrugged. “What the hell?” He started lumbering toward the door. “We turned down the job, didn’t we?”
I began to follow, with the Cat and Jenny and Angela in tow, when the door suddenly opened. Hrundig himself appeared in the doorway. He was wearing half-armor and carrying a sword. In his hand.
“Are you here on business?” he asked. Very mild, his voice was.
We stared at him for a moment. Hrundig’s a rather remarkable-looking man. Rumor has it that he’s human, but you have to wonder a bit. There are those odd discrepancies.
First off, his skin. Alsasks are pale, to be sure, but Hrundig’s flesh was as white as an albino’s. Yet his skin had none of that translucent, pinkish appearance which a true albino’s does. No, his flesh looked like the wall of a glacier.
And that’s not a bad image, actually, to convey the essence of the man. A walking, talking—glacier.
It wasn’t his size, so much. True, Hrundig was a little bigger than the average man—the average Alsask, for that matter, who tend to run on the large size—but he was no giant like Greyboar. No, it wasn’t his size. It wasn’t even his musculature, impressive as it was. It was the sense he exuded of a man whose body was as hard as a glacier and whose soul was just as cold. And both of which—body and soul together—were inexorable.
Oh, yeah, and his eyes. Ice blue.
Greyboar shrugged. “We’re simply here on a personal call, Hrundig. We’re not looking for you, as it happens. We’re looking for Benvenuti Sfondrati-Piccolomini.”
No expression registered on Hrundig’s face beyond a slight sense of calculation.
“I’m being quite honest,” added Greyboar. “The truth is, we had no idea you even lived here.”
Hrundig’s smile was, as they say, chilly. “I’m trying to remember,” he mused, “if lying directly to the chokee—protestations of innocent intentions, to be precise—is allowed under the Professional Stranglers’ Official Code of Ethics. As a means of gaining access to the chokee’s gullet.”
Greyboar looked slightly embarrassed. “Well, actually, as a matter of fact, it is. Hallowed by tradition, actually. To be precise.”
“That’s what my memory was just telling me.”
Greyboar shrugged again. “Why would I do it, Hrundig? We turned down that little job offer, you know.”
The smile was now, as they say, wintry. “Not exactly. As I heard the tale, you turned down the price offered for the job.”
Greyboar grinned. “Turned it down flat. Can you believe that idiot Sk—well, no names; matter of professional ethics—offered us the usual rate?”
For just a fleeting instant, a faint look of curiosity came and went in Hrundig’s deep-set eyes. “What was your counteroffer?”
Greyboar looked at me. I sighed.
“I offered triple rate. And no bargaining.”
The memory was still a bit hot. “And would you believe that jackass Sk—” I choked down the words. “Well, no names. Matter of professional ethics, you understand.”
Hrundig’s smile widened, slightly. “It was Skerritt,” he stated. “Irked, he was, that I was taking so much business from his own salle d’armes.”
Widened further. “Pity, what a sad end he came to. I hear they found him in an alley, a bit later, rather badly hacked up.”
(Actually, they found Skerritt in several alleys. His limbs, that is. His guts they found hanging from a lamppost. And his—well, let’s just say that Skerritt’s demise gave vivid proof that the expression “head up his ass” was no mere metaphor.)