Free Overtime by Tom Holt

his revolver away and came out from behind the horse.
    â€˜Is he all right?’ he said.
    Blondel looked at the body at his feet. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘if he is then I’ve just been wasting my time. Thanks for your help, by the way. You meant well.’ He stuck a finger through the bullet hole in his hat and spun the hat round a couple of times.
    â€˜Like I said,’ Guy muttered defensively, ‘I don’t see terribly well in the—’
    â€˜Yes, well,’ Blondel said, ‘it’s the thought that counts.’ He put up his sword, gave the body a kick, and put his hat back on. ‘Don’t worry about him,’ he said. ‘He’ll be right as rain in the morning.’ He glanced up at the sky. ‘Well, better, anyway.’
    â€˜Footpads?’ Guy asked.
    â€˜Footpads be blowed,’ Blondel replied. ‘See that shield? Mitre argent on a sable field and bunches of upside-down keys? No, if it was footpads I’d be inclined to worry.’ He turned round and stood in front of the stag, hands on hips.
    â€˜Now then,’ Blondel said, ‘I think you and I should have a little talk.’
    The stag gave him a blank look, as if to say that deer are not capable of human speech. Their larynxes are the wrong shape, said the stag’s eyes.
    â€˜Unless,’ Blondel continued, ‘you don’t want to talk, of course, in which case it’s venison rissoles for my friend here and myself. Capisce ?’
    The stag breathed heavily through its nose.
    â€˜I’ll count,’ said Blondel sweetly. ‘Up to five. One.’
    â€˜All right,’ said the stag, without moving its lips (the larynxes of stags are totally incapable of forming human speech), ‘there’s no need to come over all unnecessary. I was only doing my job.’
    Blondel smiled. ‘And what might that be?’ he said. In the background, Guy coughed.
    â€˜Excuse me,’ he said.
    Blondel turned his head. ‘What?’ he asked.
    â€˜Do you mind if I have a cigarette?’ Guy said. ‘All this excitement...’
    â€˜Go ahead,’ Blondel replied. He turned back to the stag. ‘Your job,’ he said.
    â€˜I serve His Excellency Julian XXIII,’ mumbled the stag. ‘All right?’
    â€˜Yes, I know that,’ said Blondel. ‘A mitre argent on a sable field and all that nonsense. You were told to come here?’
    The stag nodded. The movement of its antlers jerked Guy’s hand, sending his cigarette arcing through the air like a flying glow-worm. He said something under his breath and lit another.
    â€˜And when we turned up, you were to lead us towards where the idiot there was lying in wait?’
    The stag nodded again but Guy was ready this time.
    â€˜Thought so,’ Blondel said. ‘Now then. Who said we’d be coming this way tonight?’
    The stag gave him a blank look.
    â€˜Come on,’ Blondel said. ‘Someone must have said.’
    The stag shrugged.
    â€˜Oh, be like that, then,’ said Blondel. ‘Now then, where did you come from?’
    Silence. It wasn’t (Guy felt) that the stag didn’t want to say; more like it didn’t actually know. Probably it didn’t understand the question. Blondel rephrased it.
    â€˜Where,’ he asked, ‘do you live?’
    Silence.
    â€˜You know what?’ Blondel said to Guy. ‘I think we’re wasting our time. Just because the dratted thing can speak doesn’t necessarily mean it’s intelligent.’
    â€˜Here,’ said the stag, affronted, ‘just you mind what you’re—’
    â€˜In fact,’ Blondel went on, ‘I think that if we look carefully...’ He went across and started to feel the fur between the stag’s ears. ‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘Here we are.’ He pulled, and something came away in his hands. The light went suddenly out.
    â€˜Blondel,’ Guy