Captive - Cheryl Brooks Page 0,64

with a shrug. “Doesn’t really matter as long as I get a match with Pelarus.”

“I have never heard that he was a particularly fierce warrior,” Velkma said. “He would probably refuse and order his Nedwuts to kill you.”

“That’s where you ladies come in. If all of you were to rise up and demand that he agree to fight me, he’d have a hard time backing down.” Moe lowered his voice. “Especially if the winner gets Klara.”

Temfilk rubbed his fingertips together. “Ooh, I like that! She’ll never agree to it, but I like it!”

Nexbit threw up his hands. “Okay. I give up. What sort of pictures do you want us to draw?”

“Oh, you know the kind of thing I mean,” Moe replied. “Like the wanted posters, only proclaiming the fight of the century and winner takes all or something of that nature.”

“The trick will be finding enough pencils and paint,” Velkma said. “Such things are not readily available on this world.” With a rueful twist of her lips, she added, “No doubt to prevent us from doing this very thing.”

“We can draw with mud and sticks if we have to,” Moe said. “It doesn’t have to be pretty. Just enough to get Pelarus’s henchmen to notice.” He glanced at Velkma. “Don’t suppose you have at least one pencil, do you?”

“Only one that I have had since I was a child.” Velkma’s beady eyes grew somewhat misty. “My grandmother gave it to me.”

Great. A pencil with sentimental value.

“However”—Velkma held up a hand before Moe could protest—“because this is a most worthy cause, I am willing to let you use it.”

“Awesome. If you’ll get the pencil and one of the posters, I’ll show you what I mean.” Moe hadn’t done any artwork since his schooldays, and even then he’d never displayed any degree of talent whatsoever. Somehow, he doubted his artistic ability had changed much in the ensuing years.

Velkma rummaged through the contents of a dusty old box on the shelf above the one comfortable-looking chair in her sitting room, returning with a round-tipped charcoal pencil. “I have never used this, although I am not sure what I was saving it for. Perhaps for this very moment.” She placed the pencil in Moe’s outstretched palm. “May it bring us luck.”

“I’m all for a lucky pencil.” Moe tucked it behind his ear and pulled a poster off the wall, which fortunately was only tacked up by the corners rather than glued on like actual wallpaper. After clearing off a space on the table, he began to sketch a rather crude self-portrait. He hadn’t drawn much more than the outline of a masculine face with pointed ears when the Racks began chattering like a bunch of hungry monkeys. He glanced at Nexbit. “What’s up with them?”

“No idea.” Nexbit frowned as the smallest of the Racks hopped down from his seat and scurried around to where Moe was sitting. “Although it looks like Lis wants to try.”

Moe looked down at the furry little face that was anxiously peering up at him. Lis held out a paw. Moe was about to hand over the pencil when he stopped. “He won’t eat our only pencil, will he?”

“Don’t think so,” Nexbit replied. “After eating six aubergat stalks, he’s probably not hungry.”

Lis chattered some more and pawed at Moe’s hand.

“All right, then. If you’re sure it’s safe…” Moe eased out of his seat, gave Lis the pencil, and took a step back. “Have at it, little buddy.”

Lis climbed up in the chair and crouched over the poster. After a moment, he pointed at Moe and then toward the bedroom door. “Boss?”

Moe shook his head and pointed to himself. “Just me.”

The Rackensprie nodded and began to draw. Within a few minutes, he’d created a recognizable portrait of Moe.

Temfilk came around the table and stared at the drawing. “Well, for the love of Leon! He’s really good. Who knew?”

Moe started to suggest a career in art but thought better of it. As ugly as the Haedusians were, he doubted very many of them would want to have their portrait drawn. He took down another poster. “Try another one, only make me look really mean.” To illustrate, he snarled, baring his fangs.

Lis giggled and began drawing in earnest.

Moe had seen a number of street artists at work during his travels, but none that drew with such firm, unerring lines. In short order, Lis had produced a rather terrifying mug shot.

“Good job,” Temfilk said. “Very scary!”

Moe pulled down another poster. “Can you do one