Crimson Shadow, The - R. A. Salvatore Page 0,63

into rather than sidestepping the charge and snapping his head forward and down, a head butt that caught the bullish man right between the pumping thighs and stopped him dead in his tracks.

He straightened, his eyes crossed, and he reached down over his flattened crotch with two trembling hands.

“Not thinking of any ladies now, are you?” Oliver taunted.

The man groaned and toppled over, and Oliver slipped to the side. One of the man’s companions was there to take his place, though, with dagger drawn. The weapon started forward, only to be intercepted right over Oliver’s head by Luthien’s sword and thrown out wide. Luthien’s free hand struck fast, a straightforward punch that splattered the man’s nose and launched him toward the floor.

“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.

CHAPTER 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