into a table leg. My head kept moving, however, and I found myself face to face with an Imp.
“Brockhurst!” I exclaimed, recognizing him immediately.
“I thought I recognized you when you ... hey!” the Imp took a step backward and raised his hands defensively. “Take it easy! I’m not looking for any trouble.”
My hand had gone to my sword hilt in an involuntary effort to free it from the table leg. Apparently Brockhurst had interpreted the gesture as an effort to draw my weapon.
That was fine by me. Brockhurst had been one of Isstvan’s lieutenants, and we hadn’t parted on the best of terms. Having him a little afraid of my “ready sword” was probably a good thing.
“I don’t hold any grudge,” Brockhurst continued insistently “That was just a job! Right now I’m between jobs ... permanently!”
That last was added with a note of bitterness which piqued my curiosity.
“Things haven’t been going well?” I asked cautiously.
The Imp grimaced.
“That’s an understatement. Come on, sit down. I’ll buy you a milkshake and tell you all about it.”
I wasn’t certain what a milkshake was but I was sure I didn’t want one if they were sold here.
“Um ... thanks anyway, Brockhurst,” I said forcing a smile, “But I think I’llpass.”
The Imp arched an eyebrow at me.
“Still a little suspicious, eh?” he murmured. “Well, can’t say as I blame you. Tell you what we’ll do.”
Before I could stop him, he strolled to the counter.
“Hey, Gus!” he called. “Mind if I take an extra cup?”
“Actually ...”the gargoyle began.
“Thanks!”
Brockhurst was already on his way back, bearing his prize with him, some kind of a thin-sided, flimsy canister. Plopping down at a nearby table, he beckoned me over, indicating the seat opposite him with a wave of his hand.
There was no gracious course for me to follow other than to join him, though it would later occur to me I had no real obligation to be gracious. Moving carefully to avoid knocking anything over with my sword, I maneuvered my way to the indicated seat.
Apparently, Brockhurst had been sitting here before, as there was already a canister on the table identical to the one he had fetched from the counter. The only difference was that the one on the table was three quarters full of a curious pink liquid.
With great ceremony, the Imp picked up the canister from the table and poured half its contents into the new vessel. The liquid poured with the consistency of swamp muck.
“Here!” he said, pushing one of the canisters across the table to me. “Now you don’t have to worry about any funny business with the drinks. We’re both drinking the same thing.”
With that, he raised his vessel in a mock toast and took a healthy swallow from It. Apparently he expected me to do the same. I would have rather sucked blood.
“Um ... it’s hard to believe things aren’t going well for you,” I stalled. “You look well enough.”
For a change, I was actually sincere. Brockhurst looked good ... even for an Imp. As Aahz had said, Imps are snappy dressers, and Brockhurst was no exception. He was outfitted in a rust-colored velvet jerkin trimmed in gold which set off his pink complexion and sleek black hair superbly. If he was starving, you couldn’t tell it from looking at him. Though still fairly slender, he was as well-muscled and adroit as when I had first met him.
“Don’t let appearances fool you,” Brockhurst insisted, shaking his head. “You see before you an Imp pushed to the wall. I’ve had to sell everything: my crossbow, my pouch of magic tricks. I couldn’t even raise enough money to pay my dues to the Assassins Guild.”
“It’s that hard to find work?” I sympathized.
“I’ll tell you, Skeeve,” he whispered confidentially, “I haven’t worked since that fiasco with Isstvan.”
The sound of that name still sent chills down my back. “Where is Isstvan, anyway?” I asked casually.
“Don’t worry
“Brockhurst!” I exclaimed, recognizing him immediately.
“I thought I recognized you when you ... hey!” the Imp took a step backward and raised his hands defensively. “Take it easy! I’m not looking for any trouble.”
My hand had gone to my sword hilt in an involuntary effort to free it from the table leg. Apparently Brockhurst had interpreted the gesture as an effort to draw my weapon.
That was fine by me. Brockhurst had been one of Isstvan’s lieutenants, and we hadn’t parted on the best of terms. Having him a little afraid of my “ready sword” was probably a good thing.
“I don’t hold any grudge,” Brockhurst continued insistently “That was just a job! Right now I’m between jobs ... permanently!”
That last was added with a note of bitterness which piqued my curiosity.
“Things haven’t been going well?” I asked cautiously.
The Imp grimaced.
“That’s an understatement. Come on, sit down. I’ll buy you a milkshake and tell you all about it.”
I wasn’t certain what a milkshake was but I was sure I didn’t want one if they were sold here.
“Um ... thanks anyway, Brockhurst,” I said forcing a smile, “But I think I’llpass.”
The Imp arched an eyebrow at me.
“Still a little suspicious, eh?” he murmured. “Well, can’t say as I blame you. Tell you what we’ll do.”
Before I could stop him, he strolled to the counter.
“Hey, Gus!” he called. “Mind if I take an extra cup?”
“Actually ...”the gargoyle began.
“Thanks!”
Brockhurst was already on his way back, bearing his prize with him, some kind of a thin-sided, flimsy canister. Plopping down at a nearby table, he beckoned me over, indicating the seat opposite him with a wave of his hand.
There was no gracious course for me to follow other than to join him, though it would later occur to me I had no real obligation to be gracious. Moving carefully to avoid knocking anything over with my sword, I maneuvered my way to the indicated seat.
Apparently, Brockhurst had been sitting here before, as there was already a canister on the table identical to the one he had fetched from the counter. The only difference was that the one on the table was three quarters full of a curious pink liquid.
With great ceremony, the Imp picked up the canister from the table and poured half its contents into the new vessel. The liquid poured with the consistency of swamp muck.
“Here!” he said, pushing one of the canisters across the table to me. “Now you don’t have to worry about any funny business with the drinks. We’re both drinking the same thing.”
With that, he raised his vessel in a mock toast and took a healthy swallow from It. Apparently he expected me to do the same. I would have rather sucked blood.
“Um ... it’s hard to believe things aren’t going well for you,” I stalled. “You look well enough.”
For a change, I was actually sincere. Brockhurst looked good ... even for an Imp. As Aahz had said, Imps are snappy dressers, and Brockhurst was no exception. He was outfitted in a rust-colored velvet jerkin trimmed in gold which set off his pink complexion and sleek black hair superbly. If he was starving, you couldn’t tell it from looking at him. Though still fairly slender, he was as well-muscled and adroit as when I had first met him.
“Don’t let appearances fool you,” Brockhurst insisted, shaking his head. “You see before you an Imp pushed to the wall. I’ve had to sell everything: my crossbow, my pouch of magic tricks. I couldn’t even raise enough money to pay my dues to the Assassins Guild.”
“It’s that hard to find work?” I sympathized.
“I’ll tell you, Skeeve,” he whispered confidentially, “I haven’t worked since that fiasco with Isstvan.”
The sound of that name still sent chills down my back. “Where is Isstvan, anyway?” I asked casually.
“Don’t worry
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