“That’s his sister,” I hissed. “Gwendolyn.”
Their eyes grew round. They stared at the portraits. Me, I just sighed and left the room.
In the studio, I found Greyboar standing in the center of the room. He was staring at the artist, who was still seated and working on his sketches.
I started to head toward the chokester. Not quite sure why, really. I mean, it’s not as if a guy my size is really going to restrain the world’s greatest strangler when he’s hell-bent on—
What would you call that, anyway? Throttling your sister’s squeeze? Sororicopulicide?
But, to my surprise, Greyboar turned away. And then, to my utter astonishment, went and got a chair against the far wall, hauled it out, and planted himself upon it. And there he sat, his face like a stone, watching the artist finishing his sketches.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hrundig enter the room. His eyes quickly flitted about, taking in the whole scene. Greyboar, seated, staring at Benvenuti. The door to Benvenuti’s private room, open. Jenny and Angela, now standing in that door, staring pale-faced at Greyboar. Me, standing in the middle of room, looking like—whatever I looked like.
Yeah, Hrundig looks like your classic barbarian lowbrow, but there’s really nothing at all wrong with his brains. It didn’t take him but the instant to size up the situation. His expression grew grimmer—some trick, that—and his hand moved to his sword.
For a moment, everything was frozen. Then, suddenly, Benvenuti sat up straight, blew out his cheeks, and exclaimed: “Finished!”
He held up the sketches and turned his head. For the first time, he became aware of his surroundings. His eyes flicked about, absorbing the odd poses and expressions on the people in the room. He cocked an eyebrow.
“Is something amiss?” he asked. He glanced down at the sketch pad. “You don’t care for them? I think they’re quite excellent—and I’m usually my own harshest critic.”
“It’s not that,” I muttered. “It’s those other—”
“You should perhaps have kept the door to your private room closed,” said Hrundig.
Angela and Jenny started scurrying forward.
“We shouldn’t have gone into that room in the first place!” squeaked Jenny.
“That’s right!” chimed in Angela. “The gentleman has as much right to privacy as anybody!”
Greyboar spoke then, his voice sounding even more like an avalanche than usual. “There’s an interesting set of portraits in the other room,” he rumbled.
Benvenuti’s face grew absolutely still. Not scared-shitless-still, though. Just—still. As stony as Greyboar’s own.
I was impressed. Really impressed. Most people, when Greyboar gives them The Stare—men, for sure—turn pale, sweaty, sickly looking, etc., etc., etc., including, usually, serious bowel-control problems.
Not this guy. Artist he may have been, and an Ozarine to boot, but he had steel balls.
I made a last, desperate attempt to head off slaughter and mayhem. “Hey, big guy,” I said, placing a restraining hand—so to speak—on Greyboar’s shoulder, “I’m sure his intentions were quite honorable. It doesn’t mean anything, you know. Women are always posing stark nak—uh, nude—for artists. It’s not the same thing as—you know. Different rules.”
“That’s right!” squeaked Angela. Jenny nodded her head about a million times.
Benvenuti rose, dropped his sketch pad on the chair, and walked over to the door to his private room. He started to close it, when a thought apparently came to him.
“Cat,” he said. The Cat turned away from a portrait and gave him that bottle-glass stare. Benvenuti’s face was expressionless, still, and then he said—in a voice with nary a quaver (boy, was I impressed):
“I believe you are the only person here who has not yet examined the paintings in my private chambers. You might want to take a look at them. They’re far better than the ones out here.” He made a slight gesture with his hand, politely inviting her in.
The Cat drifted past him into the room. Benvenuti turned back to Greyboar.
“The woman in those paintings,” he said harshly, “was not a model. Nor did she ever pose for me. She was my lover, once, and I did those paintings from memory.”
I sighed, and covered my face with a hand. “Oh, boy,” I muttered. “It’s like the wise man says: `why waste a good excuse on a dummy?’ “