into, at least. It was all well and good to enjoy your business, but Bonsoir was a professional, as has been mentioned, and a professional does not work for free.
There were some rats guarding the treasure chamber, though not nearly as many as usual. To get through them Bonsoir had to act with less subtlety than he preferred, tossing one of his few remaining sticks of dynamite, then coming in hard and fast with his knives in the second after it exploded. One of the rats got a shot off, but it went wide, and he didn’t get a second. When the smoke cleared there were Bonsoir and three dead rats and a multicolored collage on the wall that Bonsoir assumed were the remains of a fourth.
It took nearly half an hour for Bonsoir to pick the lock, and he did not think he was being unduly arrogant—though Bonsoir was, admittedly, titanic in his self-regard—in saying that there was not another creature alive who could have managed it in twice the time. Still, it was longer than he liked to spend out in the open, with his back turned, and he felt his heart trill when the lock
snick
ed open, and he could slip inside.
Awaiting him was a clear blue spring to a creature dying of thirst; awaiting him were a mother’s arms to a weeping babe; awaiting him was that final moment of release for which all living things secretly long. Even in these late days, after five years of misrule by Mephetic and five before that of civil war, the Gardens were a prosperous place, and the tax collectors ever busy. There were walls of scrip of all sorts, scrip from every one of the major banks and most of the kingdoms back east. But what is scrip, when compared with hard gold, heavy octagonal coins in thick cloth sacks, bars laid crossways? And what is gold compared to the innumerable glittering treasures, sterling jewelry and fat gemstones, emeralds and rubies and diamonds and things for which Bonsoir did not know the name?
It was the most beautiful sight that Bonsoir had ever seen, and he could not be blamed, or at least he could not have been blamed much, for the moment of shock that followed, for dropping his guard and staring in wonder at the wealth better than love that was now his.
But blame him or not, he paid for it.
“What a fascinating development,” a voice said from behind him.
Bonsoir snarled and turned to throw one of his knives and felt something explode in the center of his torso. At first it was more a sensation of force than pain, but the pain came quickly on its heels, and the pain was worse than anything he had felt in a long life of misery. Then he was on the ground, and above him stood the handsomest little white cat you could ever want to see, grinning from ear to ear and watching Bonsoir bleed.
“By Cromwell’s ghost,” Puss said, “I hope they’re not all in the bag so easy.”
Chapter 44: Besting the Reaper
They were running through one of the many courtyards, heading toward the inner keep, Cinnabar in front, then the Captain, then Barley. They had given up being quiet but they were still trying to be quick, and so far they’d had no trouble, Cinnabar’s hands making a handful of rats into a handful of corpses.
They had just passed the main guardhouse when the alarm bells began to ring. The Captain looked at Barley but didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to say anything; Barley had already unlimbered his cannon from off of his back, was checking on each of the little spinning bits and smiling brightly. The Captain continued on the way he was going, toward the heart of the castle. Cinnabar bothered with a good-bye, an uncharacteristic bit of sentimentality for the Dragon—and an unnecessary one.
Because Barley wasn’t paying any attention; his eyes were huge and they were fixed on the guardhouse, and he wore a smile that was more of a leer, and after a quick moment, a very quick moment, Cinnabar followed the Captain, sprinting toward the inner keep. Barley gave the barrel of his gun one last spin, heard its
There were some rats guarding the treasure chamber, though not nearly as many as usual. To get through them Bonsoir had to act with less subtlety than he preferred, tossing one of his few remaining sticks of dynamite, then coming in hard and fast with his knives in the second after it exploded. One of the rats got a shot off, but it went wide, and he didn’t get a second. When the smoke cleared there were Bonsoir and three dead rats and a multicolored collage on the wall that Bonsoir assumed were the remains of a fourth.
It took nearly half an hour for Bonsoir to pick the lock, and he did not think he was being unduly arrogant—though Bonsoir was, admittedly, titanic in his self-regard—in saying that there was not another creature alive who could have managed it in twice the time. Still, it was longer than he liked to spend out in the open, with his back turned, and he felt his heart trill when the lock
snick
ed open, and he could slip inside.
Awaiting him was a clear blue spring to a creature dying of thirst; awaiting him were a mother’s arms to a weeping babe; awaiting him was that final moment of release for which all living things secretly long. Even in these late days, after five years of misrule by Mephetic and five before that of civil war, the Gardens were a prosperous place, and the tax collectors ever busy. There were walls of scrip of all sorts, scrip from every one of the major banks and most of the kingdoms back east. But what is scrip, when compared with hard gold, heavy octagonal coins in thick cloth sacks, bars laid crossways? And what is gold compared to the innumerable glittering treasures, sterling jewelry and fat gemstones, emeralds and rubies and diamonds and things for which Bonsoir did not know the name?
It was the most beautiful sight that Bonsoir had ever seen, and he could not be blamed, or at least he could not have been blamed much, for the moment of shock that followed, for dropping his guard and staring in wonder at the wealth better than love that was now his.
But blame him or not, he paid for it.
“What a fascinating development,” a voice said from behind him.
Bonsoir snarled and turned to throw one of his knives and felt something explode in the center of his torso. At first it was more a sensation of force than pain, but the pain came quickly on its heels, and the pain was worse than anything he had felt in a long life of misery. Then he was on the ground, and above him stood the handsomest little white cat you could ever want to see, grinning from ear to ear and watching Bonsoir bleed.
“By Cromwell’s ghost,” Puss said, “I hope they’re not all in the bag so easy.”
Chapter 44: Besting the Reaper
They were running through one of the many courtyards, heading toward the inner keep, Cinnabar in front, then the Captain, then Barley. They had given up being quiet but they were still trying to be quick, and so far they’d had no trouble, Cinnabar’s hands making a handful of rats into a handful of corpses.
They had just passed the main guardhouse when the alarm bells began to ring. The Captain looked at Barley but didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to say anything; Barley had already unlimbered his cannon from off of his back, was checking on each of the little spinning bits and smiling brightly. The Captain continued on the way he was going, toward the heart of the castle. Cinnabar bothered with a good-bye, an uncharacteristic bit of sentimentality for the Dragon—and an unnecessary one.
Because Barley wasn’t paying any attention; his eyes were huge and they were fixed on the guardhouse, and he wore a smile that was more of a leer, and after a quick moment, a very quick moment, Cinnabar followed the Captain, sprinting toward the inner keep. Barley gave the barrel of his gun one last spin, heard its
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