since he’d done his own killing, and apart from his lost gun, he had nothing but a wavy-bladed knife, which he drew swiftly.
“I think this would be a triple-cross, actually, though at some point the sums get hard to do without pen and paper.” If Gertrude had any other weapons on her person, she made no move for them, her hands clasped together as if in prayer.
Mephetic feinted left and took a swipe at her, but Gertrude didn’t so much as quiver at the ruse, and so neatly dodged the attack itself that for a moment Mephetic got the impression he was fighting not a plump, hairy mole, but some creature composed of the very ether itself.
“I’ve still got the Captain,” Mephetic said, trying to land a verbal blow if he couldn’t manage a physical one.
“Not for much longer, I should think. On behalf of the Captain, I’d very much like to thank you for offering us ingress into your impregnable abode.
Our
impregnable abode, I should very soon say.”
Mephetic roared and tossed his blade at Gertrude, turning end over end, though by the time it reached the space Gertrude had occupied a scant second earlier Gertrude was no longer occupying it.
Which in fact Mephetic had predicted, having belatedly come to recognize the mole’s unnatural speed, a speed that was contrary to her species and indeed to her physical makeup. In fact the skunk, though he had misplayed this particular game, misplayed it quite thoroughly indeed, was no dullard. You will find that skunks as a species are quite clever, as well as being relatively fast and hard to kill.
Though of course, this is not what skunks are famous for. Skunks are famous for one thing and one thing only, and this was the emission that, dropping swiftly and swinging his bushy tail around, Mephetic released from his anal glands, a pulse of foulness that crowded thick through the close air.
Chapter 40: The Specialist
Bonsoir slipped a claw into the outer door of the citadel, just before it banged shut. He waited a few seconds to make sure Gertrude had taken care of her end, then tailed afterward. Two dead rats testified to the mole’s competence, not that Bonsoir had been foolish enough to doubt it. There was a reason everyone feared the Underground Man. Her reputation did not rest on sand.
Nor was Bonsoir’s. He picked the lock on the next door and scampered ahead, as confident in the reinforcements as he had been in the advance force. Gertrude had marked the trail—it was Bonsoir’s job to bust it wide open.
Though, in truth, it was a task unworthy of an animal of Bonsoir’s talent. The mole had left most of the guards she’d passed dead or rapidly dying, purple-faced or with thick trails of blood leaking from their canines, victims of the seemingly endless packets of poison Gertrude carried on her person. All Bonsoir had to do was take care of the stragglers and make sure all the doors were unlocked, and he had trouble with neither. It didn’t hurt that he had lived and worked in the palace for years, knew it like the back of his own black-furred hand.
Bonsoir stopped just short of the antechamber leading into what had been the Captain’s office some years earlier. Two guards still waited outside; for some reason Gertrude hadn’t managed to find a way to kill either of them. The mole is slipping, Bonsoir thought to himself, though he did not really believe it. The first rat had a knife in his throat all of a sudden, collapsing to the ground so swiftly and so quietly that at first his counterpart seemed to think he had fainted, was bent over trying to revive him when another of Bonsoir’s daggers opened a hole in his esophagus through which you could see his spine.
Bonsoir made sure to avoid the blood his handiwork had sent splattering onto the wall. He was a professional, after all.
His task completed, Bonsoir slipped off into the surrounding corridors, knives on his belt and dynamite in his pack, anxious to see what mischief his expertise might
“I think this would be a triple-cross, actually, though at some point the sums get hard to do without pen and paper.” If Gertrude had any other weapons on her person, she made no move for them, her hands clasped together as if in prayer.
Mephetic feinted left and took a swipe at her, but Gertrude didn’t so much as quiver at the ruse, and so neatly dodged the attack itself that for a moment Mephetic got the impression he was fighting not a plump, hairy mole, but some creature composed of the very ether itself.
“I’ve still got the Captain,” Mephetic said, trying to land a verbal blow if he couldn’t manage a physical one.
“Not for much longer, I should think. On behalf of the Captain, I’d very much like to thank you for offering us ingress into your impregnable abode.
Our
impregnable abode, I should very soon say.”
Mephetic roared and tossed his blade at Gertrude, turning end over end, though by the time it reached the space Gertrude had occupied a scant second earlier Gertrude was no longer occupying it.
Which in fact Mephetic had predicted, having belatedly come to recognize the mole’s unnatural speed, a speed that was contrary to her species and indeed to her physical makeup. In fact the skunk, though he had misplayed this particular game, misplayed it quite thoroughly indeed, was no dullard. You will find that skunks as a species are quite clever, as well as being relatively fast and hard to kill.
Though of course, this is not what skunks are famous for. Skunks are famous for one thing and one thing only, and this was the emission that, dropping swiftly and swinging his bushy tail around, Mephetic released from his anal glands, a pulse of foulness that crowded thick through the close air.
Chapter 40: The Specialist
Bonsoir slipped a claw into the outer door of the citadel, just before it banged shut. He waited a few seconds to make sure Gertrude had taken care of her end, then tailed afterward. Two dead rats testified to the mole’s competence, not that Bonsoir had been foolish enough to doubt it. There was a reason everyone feared the Underground Man. Her reputation did not rest on sand.
Nor was Bonsoir’s. He picked the lock on the next door and scampered ahead, as confident in the reinforcements as he had been in the advance force. Gertrude had marked the trail—it was Bonsoir’s job to bust it wide open.
Though, in truth, it was a task unworthy of an animal of Bonsoir’s talent. The mole had left most of the guards she’d passed dead or rapidly dying, purple-faced or with thick trails of blood leaking from their canines, victims of the seemingly endless packets of poison Gertrude carried on her person. All Bonsoir had to do was take care of the stragglers and make sure all the doors were unlocked, and he had trouble with neither. It didn’t hurt that he had lived and worked in the palace for years, knew it like the back of his own black-furred hand.
Bonsoir stopped just short of the antechamber leading into what had been the Captain’s office some years earlier. Two guards still waited outside; for some reason Gertrude hadn’t managed to find a way to kill either of them. The mole is slipping, Bonsoir thought to himself, though he did not really believe it. The first rat had a knife in his throat all of a sudden, collapsing to the ground so swiftly and so quietly that at first his counterpart seemed to think he had fainted, was bent over trying to revive him when another of Bonsoir’s daggers opened a hole in his esophagus through which you could see his spine.
Bonsoir made sure to avoid the blood his handiwork had sent splattering onto the wall. He was a professional, after all.
His task completed, Bonsoir slipped off into the surrounding corridors, knives on his belt and dynamite in his pack, anxious to see what mischief his expertise might
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