The Painter and the Warlord - By Liva Wilborg

Dog

There are two ways to gauge a man's true heart. By examining his anger. Or by examining his fear.

I keep to the shadows of the gate-house, holding the leash tight. The dog begins to growl, showing his strong, sharp teeth, as the carriage comes to a halt in the courtyard of the fortress, the horses champing their bits and shaking their heads, fatigued after the long journey through rough terrain in the baking afternoon sun.

This little exercise always brings a childish smile to my lips. Whenever a new man enters my service, I send a dog at him. Fierce and loyal and ferocious, great muscles rippling under sleek, black fur, it tears out of the gate towards them as they set foot on the ground. Most men flee to the safety of the carriage, though some stand still in disbelief and fear. One pulled a weapon and defended himself. Most have to deal with deep bite wounds, infecting and crippling. I apologize afterwards, of course. And tell them I will punish the keeper of the dogs for letting the beast escape.

The carriage door opens. He is nothing like the image I saw in my mind's eye when I heard of him. A man in his forties, I was told. Engineer and scholar by reputation; a painter by trade, to make it all the more absurd.

He sent me a map. The city unfurled in all its splendour as the courier put the innocent piece of paper on the table before me. It was exhilarating. As I picked it up, studying the intricacy of narrow streets and broad thoroughfares, recognising the plaza before the church, the market place, the roads leading up to the gates in the city walls I felt as though I held the very city itself in my hands. I immediately sent for him.

I still expect him to be a fattish slob in an expensive robe, showing off his urban scholarly inclination with a long beard, gold chains across his chest and a silly hat. Pudgy fingers littered with rings.

The man who jumps from the wagon is slender, agile, his back straight. He carries himself with a sort of elegance and self reliance I could easily see as a challenge. I try to convince myself that he is a servant, accompanying the master I have employed, but nobody else gets out, and from my vantage point in the shadows, I can see into the carriage. He is the only passenger. Not counting the crates and boxes stuffed into the wagon.

The simple pants and doublet he wears are made of expensive fabric, but practical nonetheless. His shirt sleeves are rolled up in the heat of the afternoon. Short, light hair is flying about his clean-shaven face. He holds his hat in his hand along with a sketch book, loose papers stuffed into the binding. A few seconds from now, I'm confident, the papers will scatter about the courtyard when I release the beast, barely held in check. The dog is pulling its leash, eager for the hunt. I smile at him and let him go.

He almost seems to fly from my hand, the heavy leather leash trailing after him. My attention is on the man by the wagon as he whirls around at the growling sound, staring at the demon approaching.

And then the demon betrays me. I would laugh if I wasn't suddenly struck dumb by the ridiculous spectacle before me.

He stands still. Calm. Staring at the dog. Pointing at the ground in front of him imperiously. And the beast almost falls over its own legs, scrambling in mid-run to stop at all costs. Dragging its bum across the flagstones and gravel of the courtyard, the stupid dog slides to a sitting halt in front of my new employee. Its tongue flaps out idiotically and its clipped tail-end wags as he crouches, putting the sketchbook and hat on the ground, and ruffles the beast's fur appreciatively. It barks happily and is silenced by his hand on its snout. He even has the audacity to laugh at it, putting his face close to the once ferocious maw, stroking the fur of the neck and patting the muscular shoulders.

"Where is your master?" Leonardo asks the dog as I approach the cursed pair, anger building quietly.

"Right in front of the dog, apparently..." I comment. I will have to tell him I'm happy he's unhurt. It galls me!

I am going to shoot that treacherous mutt!

Next Chapter - Breakfast