“Ow!” Luthien cried, flapping his bruised knuckles.
“Have you met my friend?” Oliver asked the downed man.
The remaining thug came forward, also holding a dagger, and Luthien stopped his flapping and readied his sword, thinking that another fight was upon him. Oliver leaped out instead, drawing rapier and main gauche.
The crowd backed away; Luthien noticed the Praetorian Guards looking on with more than a passing interest. If Oliver killed or seriously wounded the man, Luthien realized, he would likely be arrested on the spot.
A gasp arose as the man lunged with the dagger, but Oliver easily dodged, moved aside, and slapped the man on the rump with the side of his rapier. Again the stubborn thug came on, and again Oliver parried and slapped.
The man Luthien had hit was starting to get up again, and Luthien was about to jump in to meet him, but the woman, charmed by Oliver’s attention, was there first. She neatly removed one shoe, holding it up protectively in front of her, seeming the lady all the while. Then her visage turned suddenly savage and she launched a barrage of barefooted kicks on the man’s face so viciously that he fell back to the ground, squirming and ducking.
That brought cheers from the onlookers.
Oliver continued to toy with the thug for a few passes, then went into a wild routine, his blades dancing every which way, crossing hypnotically and humming as they cut the air. A step and a thrust brought the main gauche against the man’s dagger, and a twist of Oliver’s wrist sent the weapon spinning free.
Oliver jumped back and lowered his weapons, looking from the stunned thug to the fallen dagger.
“Enough of this!” the halfling shouted suddenly, quieting the whispering and gasping crowd.
“You are thinking that you can get to the weapon,” Oliver said to the man, locking stares with him. “Perhaps you are correct.” The halfling tapped the brim of his hat with his rapier. “But I warn you, sir, the next time I disarm you, you may take the word as a literal description!”
The man looked at the dagger one last time, then rushed away into the crowd, bringing howls of laughter. Oliver bowed gracefully after the performance and replaced his weapons, gingerly stepping by the original rogue, who was still prone and groaning, clutching at his groin.
Many of the dispersing group, particularly the dwarves, chose a path that took them close enough so that they could pat the daring and debonair halfling on the back—salutes that Oliver accepted with a sincere smile.
“Back five minutes and already there’s trouble!” Tasman remarked when the halfling and Luthien returned to their seats at the bar. It didn’t seem to Luthien, however, that the man was really complaining.
“But sir,” Oliver replied, seeming truly wounded, “there was the reputation of a lady to consider.”
“Yeah,” Tasman agreed. “A lady with large . . . thorns.”
“Oh!” the halfling cried dramatically. “You do so wound me!”
Oliver was laughing again when he returned his gaze to Luthien, sitting open-mouthed and amazed by it all.
“You will learn,” Oliver remarked.
Luthien wasn’t sure if that was a promise or a threat.
14
The First Job
Luthien thought “Tiny Alcove” the most ridiculous name he had ever heard for a street—until Oliver, leading him through the shabby avenues of dilapidated wooden buildings, turned a corner and announced that they were home. Tiny Alcove was more an alley than a street, barely eight feet wide and shrouded in the shadows of tall buildings whose main entrances were on other fronts.
The two walked down through the gloom of a moonless night, gingerly stepping over the bodies of those drunken men who had not made it to their own doors, or had no doors to call their own. A single street lantern burned in the lane above a broken railing and chipped stairs that led down to an ironbound door. As they passed, Luthien noticed other lights burning within and the huddled shadows of people moving about.
“Thieving guild,” Oliver explained in a whisper.
“Were you a member?” Luthien thought the question perfectly reasonable, but the look Oliver gave to him showed that the halfling apparently did not share his feelings.
“I?” Oliver asked imperiously, and he chuckled and walked on, out of the lamplight and into the gloom.
Luthien caught up to him across the lane and four doors down, on the top step of another descending stone stairway that ended in a narrow, but long landing and a wooden door. Oliver paused there for a long, long while, studying the place quietly, stroking his neatly trimmed goatee.
“This was my house,” he whispered out of the corner of his mouth.
Luthien did not reply, caught up in the halfling’s curious posture. Oliver was tentative, seemed almost afraid.
“We cannot go down there,” the halfling announced.
“One must learn to sense these things?” Luthien asked, to which Oliver only smiled and turned, stepping back up to the street level. The halfling stopped abruptly and snapped his fingers, then spun back and whipped his main gauche down the stairs. It hit the door with a loud thump and hung quivering.
Luthien started to ask what the halfling thought he was doing, but the young man was interrupted by a dozen rapid clicking noises, the sound of stone scraping stone, and a sudden hiss. He spun back toward the door, then hopped up next to Oliver as darts ricocheted off the stone stairs. The bottom of the landing burned with a hot fire, and as Luthien stared on in disbelief, a large block of stone slid out from above the doorway, crashing down into the flames.
As though a giant had peeked over the edge of the stairs and puffed out a candle, the flames suddenly disappeared.
“Now we can go down there,” Oliver said, and hooked his fingers into his wide belt. “But do watch where you put your feet. The darts were likely poisoned.”
“Somebody does not like you,” the stunned Luthien remarked, slowly following the halfling.
Oliver grabbed the hilt of the main gauche and gave a great tug, but it did not pull free from the door. “That is only because they never came to know my most charming personality,” he explained. He stood straight, hands on hips, and eyed the weapon as though it were a stubborn enemy.
“Too bad you don’t have your main gauche,” Luthien quipped behind him, seeing his dilemma. “You could disarm the door.”
Oliver turned a not appreciative glare on his friend. Luthien reached over the halfling for the stuck dagger, but Oliver slapped his arm away. Before Luthien could protest, Oliver leaped up, grabbed the hilt of the main gauche in both hands, and planted his feet on the door on either side of it.
A heave brought the blade free, and sent Oliver, and Oliver’s great hat, flying. He did a backward somersault, landing nimbly on his feet, and caught his hat as he slipped the main gauche back into its scabbard.
“My most charming personality,” he announced again, quite pleased with himself, and Luthien, though he hated to admit it to Oliver, was quite pleased as well.
The halfling bowed and swept his arm out toward the door, indicating that Luthien should go first. The young Bedwyr almost fell for it, dipping a similar bow and stepping for the door. He reached for the handle, but then straightened and looked back at Oliver.
“It was your house,” he said, stepping to the side.
Oliver brushed his cloak back from his shoulders and boldly strode past Luthien. With a single steadying breath, he yanked the door open. A smell of soot assaulted both the friends, and though the light was practically nonexistent, they could see that the inside wood of the door was blackened. Oliver huffed and took a tentative step over the threshold, then quickly retracted his foot.
A double-bladed pendulum swung past, just inside the door jamb. Its supporting beam creaking, it swung back and forth several times, finally coming to a halt in a vertical position directly centering the door.