Mayer Alan Brenner - Spell of Intrigue

Haalsen Groot kept his gaze on the barbarian as he spoke, but, behind their lenses, his eyes appeared to be looking somewhere else entirely. “To Max, adventuring is an improvisational art. He likes to have a varietal selection of raw materials at hand from which to mold.” He also has a streak of excess sentimentality , Meester Groot reminded himself, as well as a certain philosophy of the world . Most likely he met this fellow on that caravan in his recent resume and thought he could make a modern man out of him. Whatever the exact details of his interest in Svin, here, Max was rousing himself to more activity than Groot had seen in years. Events threatened to become intriguing. These events to come would not be safe, perhaps, and they would be (most likely) ill-advised, but they would certainly not be boring. He reminded himself to order more sandbags.

Bellowing an inchoate battle cry in an impressive display of sheer vocal power, the former Lion of the Oolvaan Plain pushed off his perch on the heavy iron chandelier, dislodging half-a-dozen lit candles in the process, and plunged downward, his massive sword twirling lethally around his body. His opponent, who had been peering inquisitively around the room trying to determine what the Lion might be up to this time, brought his own rapier into line. As the Lion descended, his mightily thewed legs curling into a crouch beneath him, his adversary’s blade caught him in a sharp rap behind the calves, introducing an unexpected element of angular momentum. The Lion began to revolve backward, the floor came up as his opponent stepped smartly out of the way, and with an unwelcome thud he found himself flat on his back looking up at the expanding formation of still-flaming candles following him like dying comets toward the boards. The tip of a rapier appeared in his field of vision, blurring into a glint of red highlights as it caught the reflections of guttering fire. Pieces of candles bounced away to all sides.

The sounds of swishing and slicing died. The Lion moistened the thumb and forefinger of one hand against his lips and raised them to his forehead, crossed his eyes, and pinched gingerly in the midst of the glob of wax coagulating above his eyebrows. He was rewarded by a quick sizzle that faded off into a gurgling hiss. “You missed one,” the Lion said.

“It’s your own damn fault,” said his adversary. “Chalk it up as a lesson in humility. Who the hell ever accomplished anything with one of those big grandstanding moves in the first place?”

“I’ll have you know I once ambushed a bear. “

“By falling off a lighting fixture? And which scar did that one leave you with, hmm?”

The Lion snorted. “Shut up and help me off the floor. My back’s killing me. And toss me one of those towels.” A moment’s leverage, suitably applied, resulted in the Lion becoming vertical once again. He draped the towel over his naked chest and led the way to the sideboard. “I’ve got half a mind to join you,” he said after a moment, easing the words out around a large chunk of roast beef. “I’ve missed the last two Knittings, and the one before that must have been, oh, twenty, twenty-five years ago.”

“Sure,” Max said, “go ahead, come. Forget all that stuff you were telling me last week about how you’re the only responsible force holding this city together and getting the warehouses rebuilt on schedule, not to mention the good government seminar you’re putting your old friend Kaar through. Let Roosing Oolvaya sink back into the river - who needs it anyway?”

The Lion glared at him, an effect somewhat spoiled by the protruding cud of half-chewed meat in one cheek. “It’s my kids,” he said, “I should never have had kids in the first place. That was the beginning of the end. They warp your whole sensibility. You should have some.”

“You forget,” said Max, “I do have some. I have yours. Don’t think I don’t regret it, either.”

The Lion resumed chewing, a look of satisfaction on his face. He might have been the one who’d ended up flat on his back on the floor, but that didn’t mean he was the one who’d lost. “So, you think you can teach my son something?”

“He’s got two arms and a brain, and at least a full complement of normal senses,” Max said cautiously. “I don’t see why not. Should be able to put a little maturity on him, at any rate, if he doesn’t get carved up first.”

A rather feral grin curled the left side of the Lion’s mouth. He ran the towel over his forehead, catching the sheen of water draining down past his headband from his long black hair. “You studied with no master you’ll lay name to, you fight in a mad hodgepodge without recognizable style, no part of the room is safe from you, either, and on top of that you know the value of life - by damn, I like that in a man! Are you sure you’re not my son?”

Max raised an eyebrow and glanced at the Lion. True, they were about the same height, and they both had straightish black hair, although Max’s ran more toward the wavy and the Lion’s was running significantly toward gray, but Max had a lighter, more lithe build than the Lion’s heavy-boned, mass-of-the-earth eastern-plains solidity. Max was also fully at home with the company of a highly functioning mind. The Lion, Max had discovered, had a brain with which no one could find fault, but was reticent to the point of pulling teeth about actually using it, rather than the largest convenient sword or the nearest wieldable chair. Beyond temperament, there was also the issue of age to consider. “It would seem unlikely,” Max said. “Then again, who can say? If you can provide a reasonable inheritance, though, you’re welcome to adopt me.”

“How did you pick up that nickname anyway, the ‘Vaguely Disreputable’?” The Lion had retrieved his sword and was idly using it to cut a thin slice of corned beef from the other large hunk on the serving platter. Suddenly he whirled, flinging the slice of meat off the end of the blade toward Max’s eyes and launching the rest of his body after it. Max immediately fell backward and tucked into a roll. He’d been preparing himself for something of the sort, having found that the Lion enjoyed trying to lull his opponent off guard before flailing out in some unexpected attack. The corned beef flew over Max’s body and hit the wall behind him but the Lion’s sword, following it, slashed down instead.

Max stopped his back somersault perched on his shoulders and reversed direction with a sharpness that implied he’d had this move in mind from the start, springing forward first to a firm-footed crouch, then to a clinch directly up against the charging Lion’s chest, and then, grasping the towel still dangling around the Lion’s neck and giving it a twist and a stiff enough yank to bring a flush of sudden purple to the Lion’s face, and using his pull on the towel to amplify his vertical momentum, flipped himself head-over-heels over the Lion’s shoulder as the Lion catapulted forward toward the floor.

Max landed atop the sideboard, carefully keeping his feet clear of the food. The clang of the Lion’s sword against the floor was followed immediately by the familiar sound of the rest of the Lion joining it. “Acrobats, “ said the Lion in a muffled voice. “I’ve always detested acrobats. Rabbits, the bunch of them, always hopping out of your way.”

“I keep telling you,” said Max, “agility can outmaneuver the mass of a broadsword any day.”

The Lion sprang back to his feet with a fair show of agility on his own part and retrieved his slice of corned beef from its perch on a wall sconce. “Tell the world about it,” he said. “Acrobatics are fine if everything falls out just right. If not, you’ve just set yourself up for the strike of death.” As he swung back toward the sideboard, he saw Max standing on it, his arms folded, tapping one foot next to a bowl filled with roasted potatoes. “Oh, all right,” the Lion said, “I’m finished for today. Go ahead and make yourself a sandwich.