Hrundig actually started. Slightly.
“Train you? In the lajatang?”
The Cat turned her gaze full on him. Magnified through those incredible spectacles, her own blue eyes seemed even icier than Hrundig’s.
“Are you hard of hearing?” she demanded. “Or just stupid?”
Blue glare met blue glare. Glaciers collided.
Greyboar looked worried. I looked for the door. Too far. But there was a big shield on the wall nearby. I thought maybe the girls and I could hide behind it.
Suddenly, Hrundig laughed. A real, genuine laugh, too. Full of mirth and good humor.
“No, lady,” he said—still laughing—”I’m neither deaf nor stupid. Just caught by surprise.”
He shook his head, eyeing the Cat admiringly. “A hundred quid,” he announced.
The Cat immediately transferred her gaze to Greyboar. The strangler coughed, glanced at me—I could see it coming!—and caved in.
“Sure, sweetheart. I can swing it.” To Hrundig, in a feeble attempt to recapture a smidgen of manly frugality: “That’s a hundred a week, I imagine. But for how many sessions?”
Hrundig shook his head. “You misunderstand. One hundred’s the total price.”
Greyboar’s jaw dropped, just a bit. Mine probably hit the floor. Hrundig wasn’t precisely what you’d call upper crust—to put it mildly—but he was still the most exclusive armsmaster in New Sfinctr. He charged noblemen a hundred quid just to show them how to draw a dagger out of its sheath.
The Cat nodded. Not graciously, not thankfully—just, Cat-like. Hard to explain. As if the way things turned out were the way they naturally would, since nothing makes any sense to begin with.
I didn’t even bother squalling. No point in it. I just dug into my purse and handed over the money. Although I did manage a marvelous scowl.
Greyboar had enough sense to avoid my glaring eye. He ambled toward a far door and disappeared into the stairwell beyond. A moment later, I followed, eager to depart the scene of the crime. (A hundred quid! So’s a crazy woman could learn to handle a crazy weapon!)
On the floor above, in a large studio, I found Greyboar staring at something over the shoulder of a man seated on a stool, working on a canvas. As I approached, I recognized the fellow as Benvenuti. He seemed to be totally preoccupied with a portrait of some kind. Hearing my footsteps, he turned his head. Then, seeing the huge figure of Greyboar looming over him, he made a little gasp of startlement. It was obvious that he’d had no idea of the strangler’s presence.
I couldn’t help grinning. Huge as he is, and as much as his walk looks like a lumber, Greyboar can move with absolute silence.
“Soft-footed, isn’t he?” I chuckled. “You wouldn’t think such a huge lump could move like a cat, but he does. Quite an asset in our line of work, actually.”
“I can imagine,” said Benvenuti, frowning in bemusement. He gave Greyboar a very keen scrutiny, then. A keen scrutiny. You always hear about the “artist’s eye,” but for the first time in my life I got a real sense of the thing. And there was something different about the way Benvenuti was studying Greyboar now, compared to the way he had done so at The Trough. This time, I sensed, he was focusing not on the man, but the strangler.
Greyboar himself was oblivious. He was completely preoccupied with studying the portrait.
“Since when did you become an art connoyser?” I demanded.
The chokester shook his head. “You should see this, Ignace,” he said. His tone combined admiration with—something else, I couldn’t tell what. “I swear, it’s the spitting image.”
I moved closer. Recoiled. “Saints preserve us,” I muttered.
Benvenuti tore his eyes from Greyboar and glanced at the portrait he was working on. A raffish grin came to his face.
“I should certainly hope so!” he exclaimed. “The portrait alone should do the trick. After all, he is a holy man.”
Greyboar mumbled something. I didn’t catch all of it, but the words “slimespawn” and “scumbag” came through clearly enough.
Benvenuti must have caught more of it, because he started shaking his head with mock chagrin. “Such language! To refer to a Cardinal.”