An Evening on the Lam
STARRING "Fifth Story" Max AND Derek "the Sledge"
by Shane L. Coffey

~*~ Max ~*~
    "What are we gonna do now, Max?"
    "I dunno.  And it's Basil now, remember?  Max is dead."
    "Oh, right.  I got it."
    Max could tell that Derek didn't get it, but that was alright for now.  The babble of tavern talk buried their conversation between layers of laughter and drunken insults anyway; nobody would overhear Derek's use of the wrong alias, even though his voice tended to boom from his barrel chest.  Once Max had repeated things a few more times, his huge friend would understand.  What Derek lacked in speed on the uptake he made up in loyalty.  And hugeness.  Max, whose three-foot frame made him small even for a gnome, could use all the loyalty and hugeness he could get, especially now that they were on the lam, pursued by mysterious assassins and, as of the last round of cheap swill, broke.

He'd hated the job from the very start.  Robbing noblemen was always a nasty business; they just had no sense of humor.  Robbing noblemen of infamous, priceless artifacts was a worse idea yet, especially when it meant planting Derek "the Sledge" in the nobleman's bodyguard, Derek whose nickname was not a coy play on the weight of his intellect.  No, if Max had been in charge, he never would have gone in for that caper, but he wasn't in charge.  Boss was in charge, and when Boss said “sneak”, you'd better be using hand signs when you asked "How quiet?"  Boss was food, shelter, protection from other thugs, even the ones flying the city's colors…and in a way, Boss was father.  At least, he was as close to a father as Max and Derek had ever had.  Max cursed himself at the thought.  Boss wasn't their father.  He was an abusive leech who had exploited them from childhood then got his stupid throat cut going after a score that was obviously too big for him and managed to throw Max and Derek neck deep into the worst kind of trouble in the bargain.  He cursed again and spat on the floor at the old bastard's memory.
    Unfortunately, there was something other than air on the trajectory between his mouth and the floor, and his spiteful glob of spit struck the shoe of a man walking by, a rough-looking customer with a scar across one eye and a quality dueling sword at his hip.  He glared down at Max and snarled.
    "My apologies, large sir," Max babbled as he climbed down from his chair and began rifling under his dark brown, homespun cloak through his pockets of lock picks, files, and other larcenous oddments.  He wasn't one to bow and scrape, but he was in a strange land and had brains enough to know he couldn't afford another enemy.  He kept his eyes down, showing the rough stranger only his tied-back black hair and widow’s peak as he spoke.  "It's so much easier when ya spill a man's drink, ya can just offer to buy 'im another, but…"
    "You could offer to buy him a new shoe," Derek rumbled.
    "These boots are a hundred silvers a pair," the duelist snorted.
    "But he only spit on one."
    Max finally found his handkerchief and crouched down to wipe the spit off the stranger’s shoe, but he was only halfway there when he heard the arrogant man utter words to Derek that Max would make him regret: “Are you stupid or something?”  Max dropped the handkerchief and balled his tiny fist in rage…

~*~ Derek ~*~
    "What are we gonna do now, Max?"
    "I dunno.  And it's Basil now, remember?  Max is dead."
    "Oh, right.  I got it."
    Derek didn’t really get it.  Nobody knew them here, and the chances were good that the people after them didn’t know who they were, either.  A gnome and an oversized human traveling together would stick out enough, it didn’t seem like having an alias would make much difference.  But Max liked his plans, so Derek would try to play along.  He just had a hard time remembering them all; Max’s brain moved like lightning and did a lot of calculation, and it was a bit much for Derek’s more intuitive thought processes to keep straight.
    Derek didn’t mind Max’s plans.  In fact, he liked to be included in them; Max was the only one who didn’t think Derek was stupid or clumsy.  The truth was that Derek was of average grace, but his greatly above average size, nearing seven feet, meant that average grace was not enough to keep him from endlessly bumping his head on doorways and knocking things over in crowded stores.  It did help that as often as not, his goal in crowded stores actually was to knock things over.  He’d found that was a great way to scare the owners into paying for the Boss’s “protection” without having to hurt anyone.  That kind of work was all the Boss thought Derek was good for.  His voice was rumbly and his words came slow, so most people figured the brain working the voice was the same, especially sitting as it did behind wide, blue eyes and a childlike face.  Derek’s dry humor and deadpan delivery were lost on everybody but Max; they all thought he was being serious when he joked, serious and dumb.  Derek didn’t mind that much either, though.  People said a lot that they shouldn’t say around him, thinking him too stupid to make sense of it.
    Derek was distracted from his thoughts as Max cursed and spat, then climbed down from his chair with nervous quickness to the feet of a well-dressed stranger.  Spitting indoors was a bad habit, as Derek had chided Max time and again, not that it did any good.  It had always been just a matter of time…  "It's so much easier when ya spill a man's drink,” he heard Max mutter, “ya can just offer to buy 'im another, but…"
    "You could offer to buy him a new shoe," Derek rumbled.
    "These shoes are a hundred silvers a pair," the duelist snorted.
    "But he only spit on one," Derek quipped.
Max finally pulled out his handkerchief and bent down as the professional fighter shot a disgusted look at Derek.  Derek knew the look well and dreaded the words that were sure to follow.  The man's voice went from angry to bewildered as he asked, "Are you stupid or something?"  Derek didn't dread these words because they hurt him or frightened him.  He didn't dread them because of what strangers might think.  He dreaded them because…
    Max jumped up and rammed his tiny fist into the man's crotch, doubling him over in eye-bulging pain.
…because they always made Max see red.
Suddenly the handkerchief was gone from Max's hand, and in its place a dagger had appeared, the blade held steadily at the man's throat.  "That's me brother ya just insulted, and if ya don't take that filthy talk back inta yer head, I'll bleed ya right out."
    Even in such a precarious position, the duelist managed to laugh.  "Your brother!?  He could fit you in his pocket!"
    "That tears it!" Max shouted, pulling his dagger back to strike.  Before he got the chance, Derek smashed a chair over the other man's back, putting him down for the night.

~*~ Max ~*~
    Suddenly there was general uproar in the taproom, friends of the fallen jumping up for vengeance, serious gamblers and tavern wenches scrambling to stay out of the inevitable brawl, the barkeep shouting about damage to his property.  Max looked for the low path between legs and under tables toward the door, unconcerned about Derek.  The giant had a knack for making his own way out of a crowded room, and Max had seen him picking up a pair of busted chair legs.  Spotting his opportunity, the gnome sprinted forward…and ran smack into the legs of a city guardsman wandering in from the street to check out the commotion.  In a trice Max was hoisted into the air by the back of his shirt, but his dagger flashed into the guard's hand, and then he was falling, smacking the ground, tumbling toward an overturned table.  Derek was cracking skulls as he cleared his own path, but superior numbers were starting to weigh him down quite literally; he was dragging a brawler from each leg and had another hanging from his left arm.  By the time he bulled his way through to Max, four more guardsmen had charged into the tavern, this bunch armored and carrying halberds.
Max had to think fast.  The guardsman he'd stabbed in the hand was only a step away, still off balance and cradling the cut against his chest.  Max kicked him hard in the back of the knee, sending him to the floor, then grabbed a fistful of his yellow hair and jerked back his head.  Laying the dagger across the man's throat, he snarled at the other guards.  "Get back!  Let us go or this one dies!"  Now, the truth was that Max, for all his life of larceny and other sundry misdemeanors, had never actually killed anyone, and despite how dire his situation had become, he doubted that he actually could, but they didn't know that, and he was sure they couldn't call his bluff.  He was pretty sure.  It was fifty-fifty, worst case…

    The dungeon bars made an angry clang as they slammed shut a few minutes later.
    "What are we gonna do now, Max?"
    "I dunno.  And it's Basil now, remember?  Max is dead."
    "Oh, right.  I got it."