Sigh.
Hrundig interrupted my thoughts of gloom and doom.
“Gloomy place,” he remarked. “Makes me think of doom.”
“Thanks a lot,” I grumbled. “Just what I needed to hear.”
His cold grin was back in place. “What’s the matter, Ignace? Contemplating the Fate Worse Than Death?”
I snarled. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, making jokes about mending your wicked ways!”
The barb bounced right off. He just shrugged. “I did that a long time ago, to tell you the truth. After Olga’s husband was murdered and I got her and the girls out safely, I sort of took stock. As you might say.”
I stared into his ice-blue eyes. Hrundig is one of those deadly-looking men, if you know what I mean. I don’t mean “dangerous.” I mean—deadly. It’s always a shock, with someone like that, when you realize they actually have a soul. Just like people.
I’d learned some of the story. Hrundig had been hired in Prygg by Olga’s husband, after the Alsask retired from the Legions. The artist had gotten so famous that he needed a bodyguard just to fend off the adoring aesthetes. When Frissault got arrested for heresy, Hrundig hadn’t been able to save him from the tender mercies of the Inquisition and the Godferrets. But he did manage to smuggle the widow and the daughters to safety. Along with enough of Frissault’s paintings to set the family up in a secret villa in New Sfinctr. Then, I guess, kept them afloat with the money he made from his salle d’armes.
Odd thing to do, for such a man.
I guess he must have seen the question in my eyes. He shrugged again, in a gesture so economical it might be called “minute.”
“I wrestled with it. Long time. The truth is, it really bothered my conscience. I’d fallen in love with the woman within a week after I was hired. I tried to save her husband—did; tried hard as I could—but—”
“The Inquisition,” I jeered. “What were you going to do? Must have been a hundred Godferrets swarming all over him, after he was exposed.”
Hrundig took a little breath. “A hundred and six, to be precise. I counted. Headed up by none other than Godferret Superior #3.”
He broke off for a moment, his eyes scanning the reaches of the cavern. The glittering gold-fire reflecting in the blue irises reminded me of nothing I wanted to be reminded of. For a moment, I almost felt sorry for Godferret Superior #3. Nobody in the world can feud like an Alsask, and they never forget a vendetta.
“Anyway,” he continued softly, “it was a struggle. On the other hand, I was glad the man was dead. Not that I ever had anything against him. Damn good employer, to tell the truth. But Olga was a widow, now. So—”
He brought his eyes back to me. “So, in the end, I decided I could make it good by making it good. If you understand what I mean.”
I tried not to, but I did. And, needless to say, sighed again.
“I hate righteous living,” I grumbled.
Hrundig gave me that patented mirthless grin of his. “Oh, it really isn’t that bad, Ignace. Of course, it does require you to get acquainted with the foulest, most rotten, most disgusting four-letter word in the universe.”
I nodded gloomily. “Work.”
A moment later, Magrit hollered: “Done! You’re as good as new, Wittgenstein.”
Then, a moment later, Shelyid trotted up and handed her the jar full of overthebrimstone.
From there, things went like a mudslide. Greyboar and Gwendolyn and Jenny and Angela were up and about, raring to go. Wittgenstein was back on Magrit’s shoulder while the witch cheerfully went about packing up her bag. The salamander’s red eyes were glaring at everything and everybody except, of course—
—the Cat, who was drifting around here and there, apparently studying nothing in particular.
Worst of all, though, was Zulkeh. Because while I was chatting with Hrundig, Shelyid had hauled the wizard’s brazier out of the sack and Zulkeh was busily burning nasty stuff in it while muttering some kind of incantations.
Oh, yeah, it looks silly when you see it. Idiot sorcerer in his idiot robes, making idiot noises while he goes through idiot motions. Ha. Most wizards, of course, really are idiots. But the problem with Zulkeh is that despite his grotesque ways he really isn’t an actual idiot. Fact is, he’s what they call the genuine article. So when he starts—
Sure enough. A giant form was taking shape in the cavern. Think of a huge, roiling blackish-gray sort of cloud, with quick glimpses of lightning flashing somewhere in the dimly-glimpsed interior. Except these didn’t look like bolts of lightning so much as cobra fangs.
Cheery.
Shelyid had drifted back and was now standing next to Hrundig and me. “The professor really knows his stuff,” he piped. “Aren’t more than three, maybe four mages in the whole world know the cantrips of Schwarzchild Laebmauntsforscynneweëld.”