“A good thing?” the man slurred incredulously. “Why I’d be glad indeed to see those fattened piggy merchants get theirs, I would!”
“But wouldn’t your own take be less if this Crimson Shadow hits hard at the merchants?” Tasman reasoned. “And won’t Duke Morkney place many more guards on the streets of the upper section?”
The rogue sat silent for a moment, considering the implications. “A good thing!” he declared at last. “It’s worth the price, I say, if them fatted swine get what’s coming to them!” He swung about on his stool, nearly tumbling to the floor, and lifted his spilling flagon high in the air. “To the Crimson Shadow!” he called out loudly, and to Luthien’s surprise, at least a dozen flagons came up in the toast.
“A thief of some renown, indeed,” Oliver mumbled, remembering Brind’Amour’s description when he had given Luthien the cape and bow.
“What are they talking about?” Luthien asked, his senses too dulled to figure it out.
“They are talking of you, silly thief,” Oliver said casually, and he drained his flagon and hopped down from his stool. “Come, I must get you back to your bed.”
Luthien sat quite still, staring dumbfoundedly at the two rogues, still not quite comprehending what they, or Oliver, were talking about.
He was thinking of the slave girl, then, all the way home, and long after Oliver dropped him onto his cot.
The second rogue, the doubtful one in the discussion of the Crimson Shadow, watched Oliver and Luthien leave the Dwelf with more than a passing interest. He left the tavern soon after, running a circuitous route along the streets to a secret gate in the wall to the upper section.
The cyclopian guards, recognizing the man but obviously not fond of him, watched him suspiciously as he crawled out the other side. He flashed them his merchant seal and ran on.
He had much to report.
16
The Perils of Reputation
“You should be thinking of the task at hand,” Oliver remarked in uncomplimentary tones as he and Luthien wove their way through the darkened streets toward Montfort’s inner waIl.
“I do not even think we should be going,” Luthien replied. “We have more than enough money . . .”
Oliver spun in front of the young Bedwyr, stopping him with a pointing finger and a vicious scowl. “Never,” Oliver said slowly and deliberately. “Never, never say such a stupid thing.”
Luthien flashed a disgusted expression and ignored the halfling, but when he tried to continue walking, Oliver grabbed him and held him back.
“Never,” Oliver said again.
“When is enough enough?” Luthien asked.
“Bah!” the halfling snorted. “I would steal from the merchant-types until they became pauper-types, giving their riches to the poor. Then I would go to the poor who were no longer poor, and steal the wealth again and give it back to the merchant-types!”
“Then what is the point?” Luthien asked.
“If you were truly a thief, you would not even have to ask,” Oliver said, snapping his fingers in Luthien’s face, a habit that had become quite regular over the last few days.
“Thank you,” Luthien replied without missing a beat, and he forced his way around Oliver.
The halfling stood in the deserted street for some time, shaking his head. Luthien had not been the same since that day a week before in the market. He was thrilled when Oliver had discarded those coats he did not deem appropriate—and the children of Tiny Alcove had fallen upon them like a pack of ravenous wolves—but Luthien’s mood had become generally surly, even despondent. He ate little, talked less, and had found an excuse to prevent him from going to the inner section of the city on every occasion Oliver had proposed an excursion.
This time, though, Oliver had insisted, practically dragging Luthien out of the apartment. Oliver understood the turmoil that had come over the proud young Bedwyr, and truthfully, the rapidly growing reputation of the Crimson Shadow added an element of danger to any intended burglaries. Rumors along the seedy streets near Tiny Alcove hinted that many of Montfort’s thieves had cut back on activities for a while, at least until the merchants’ panic over this Crimson Shadow character died away.
But Oliver knew that it was neither confusion nor fear that held Luthien back. The man was smitten—it was written all over his somber face. Oliver was not coldhearted, considered himself a romantic, even, but business was business. He skittered up beside Luthien.
“If I looked into your ear, I would see an image of a half-elven slave girl,” he said, “with hair the color of wheat and the greenest of eyes.”
“You aren’t big enough to look into my ear,” Luthien coldly reminded him.
“I am smart enough so that I do not have to,” Oliver quipped in reply. The halfling recognized that this conversation was seriously degenerating, something he did not want with a potentially dangerous job ahead of them, so he jumped out in front again and brought the impatient Luthien to a stop.
“I am not cold to the ways of the heart,” the halfling asserted. “I know you are in pain.”
Luthien’s defenses melted away. “In pain,” he whispered, thinking those words a perfect description. Luthien had never known love before, not like this. He could not eat, could not sleep, and all the time his mind was filled, as Oliver had said, with that image of the half-elven woman. A vivid image; Luthien felt as if he had looked into her soul and seen the perfect complement of his own. He was normally a pragmatic sort, and he knew that this was all completely irrational. But for being irrational, it hurt all the more.
“How beautiful is the wildflower from across the field,” Oliver said quietly, “peeking at you from the shadows of the tree line. Out of reach. More beautiful than any flower you have held in your hand, it seems.”
“And what happens if you cross the field and gather that wildflower into your hand?” Luthien asked.
Oliver shrugged. “As a gentlehalfling, I would not,” he replied. “I would appreciate the glimpse of such beauty and hold the ideal in my heart forevermore.”
“Coward,” Luthien said flatly, and for perhaps the first time since the children had gathered around Oliver’s discarded coats, the young Bedwyr flashed a sincere smile.
“Coward?” Oliver replied, feigning a deep wound in his chest. “I, Oliver deBurrows, who am about to go over that wall into the most dangerous section of Montfort to take whatever I please?”
Luthien did not miss Oliver’s not-so-subtle reminder that they had more on their agenda this night than a discussion of Luthien’s stolen heart. He nodded determinedly to the halfling and the two moved on.
An hour later, the friends managed to find enough of a break in the patrol routes of the plentiful cyclopian guards to get over the wall and up onto a roof in the inner section, along the southern wall under the shadows of great cliffs. They had barely scampered over the lip when yet another patrol came marching into view. Oliver scrambled under Luthien’s crimson cape and the young man ducked his face low under the hood.
“So fine a cape,” Oliver remarked as the cyclopians moved away, oblivious to the intruders.
Luthien looked about doubtfully. “We should have waited,” he whispered, honestly amazed by the number of guards.
“We should be flattered,” Oliver corrected. “The merchant-types show us—show the Crimson Shadow—true respect. We cannot leave now and let them down.”
Oliver crept along the rooftop. Luthien watched him, thinking perhaps that the impetuous halfling was playing this whole thing too much like a game.
Oliver swung his grapnel across an alley to another roof and secured the line with a slipknot. He waited for Luthien to catch up, looked around to make certain that no other cyclopians were in the area, then crawled across to the other roof. Luthien came next, and Oliver, after some effort, managed to work the rope free.