Part I
Richie stumbled as he, Duncan and Gregor staggered down the stairs to the basement. "Careful, Rich," the Highlander said quietly. "We don't want to drop this thing."
Privately, Richie thought dropping the huge cast-iron stove would be a terrific idea; aloud he said "Can't we set it down someplace, Mac? My back is killing me." What the young Immortal really wanted was to stop and wipe away the sweat which was dripping into his eyes and threatening to blind him. "You think Attilla and Susanna will let us use the shower when we're done setting this monstrosity up?"
Gregor snickered. "They'll probably insist YOU take one before we even start."
Richie glared murderously at the dark-haired young Immortal beside him. He had a sneaking suspicion he and Mac were doing most of the work hauling the stove down to the HunE's quarters. 'Computer Security be damned,' he thought mutiniously, 'did Methos HAVE to make the woman live down here?' Richie honestly couldn't remember ever meeting Attilla and though the name conjured images of Mongol hordes on horseback brandishing swords, he couldn't imagine ANY of Methos' harem being mean enough to be banished down here. And what about Susanna? She was really nice. Despite Methos' protests to the contrary, Richie was sure she had not volunteered to share her friend's exile.
"Tell me again why we're doin' this, Mac," he said plaintively. "I mean, Methos isn't doin' this just 'cause we pissed him off, is he?"
"Come on, Rich," Mac replied. He'd have laughed at the suggestion but his lungs were beginning to ache and there was an unfortunate cramp developing in his shoulders. Katas and jogging fifteen miles a day did not prepare you for the serious business of lugging a great heavy piece of kitchen-ware down a steep flight of stairs. "Have you ever known Methos to get really pissed off?"
Richie had to admit he had not. The oldest Immortal was one of the most even-tempered individuals he'd ever met. Why then had the old boy insisted one of his precious harem be confined to this dark, dank hole?
Gregor coughed and swore. There was a sharp pain lancing up through his chest and his legs were feeling rubbery. "God," he gasped, "what kind of broad is she anyway, if he can't even let her upstairs to eat?"
The Highlander tried to shrug but gave up the effort. Maybe, when they'd gotten the stove installed in what Methos jokingly referred to as "Attilla's little kitchen", he could convince one or two of the lovely ladies upstairs to give him a backrub. He had fond hopes of maybe convincing them to give him something a bit more substantial, but a nice massage would do for a start.
At last, the three men reached the bottom of the stairs. Carefully, they set the massive appliance down and stretched sore muscles. "Wonder if she even knows HOW to cook," Greg said grumpily rubbing his shoulders and groaning.
Richie and Duncan stopped stretching cramped legs and looked at one another. "You don't think . . .," the red-head asked.
"No, even HE wouldn't do this for a joke." Duncan hoped he sounded convincing, but he was a little doubtful himself. Methos' over-developed sense of humor was a little hard to take at times.
The men stretched for a few more minutes, then picked up the stove for what they hoped would be the final leg of their journey. "Turn right just after the dungeons, Mac," Richie instructed the man in front of him.
"I know, Rich. I was there when Athena and Cy-doc gave us the directions, remember?" 'Good thing they had, too,' he thought. This place was like a rabbit-warren with all the twists and turns and little passages shooting off at all angles. Attilla must have a wonderful sense of direction if she could find her way around down here without a road map.
After what seemed to the three weary Immortals like the proverbial journey of a thousand miles, they finally reached the door to Attilla's quarters. Down went the stove for the second time.
"Uh, Mac," Richie said wonderingly. "Did either of the lovely ladies happen to give you a key for this thing?"
Duncan stood staring in bewilderment at the huge wooden door guarding the arched entrance. It looked like something out of a medieval legend. Heavy slabs of oak made up the bulk of the door, while solid brass hinges and a bolt a strong man couldn't lift helped to seal the entrance. The damned thing was drawn, too and padlocked. "I am NOT climbing those stairs again just for a key," he mumbled. "Hey, Gregor," he said more loudly than was absolutely necessary. "Why don't you trot next door and see if the charming Susanna has a spare?"
Greg was more than happy to oblige. Susanna was quite a jokester and he thought she might be able to help him with a couple of ideas he had for pranks to play on his unsuspecting friends.
"You think that's a good idea, Mac," the red-head asked. "You know how Susanna is. Put her and Greg together and we'll all need to watch our backs." MacLeod shook his head. What choice did they have? Susanna, while nice, was more than a match for Richie and he was just too tired to climb the steps to her room. Let Greg do it. Mac was sure the younger man hadn't exactly been 'pulling his weight' carrying the stove downstairs, so should have plenty of energy to spare.
Gregor walked swiftly up the low steps to Susanna's door, knocked three times and was promptly dragged inside. He glanced around. Soft white light streamed in through the skylights. Plants hung everywhere, some even twining around the panels in the roof. He glanced around the rather Spartan furnishings. Here was a lady who believed in functionality first. Several neatly matted and framed prints of wolves hung on the walls above a small bookshelf loaded with books. A cat lay sleeping at the foot of the bed which was covered in a brilliant tapestry bedspread of burgundy, navy, green and gold.
"Hey," Susanna purred. "You're kinda cute. Wanna take the tour?"
Gregor gulped. "Tour?"
Susanna smiled. "Sure," she said throatily. "Let me show you the darkroom and we'll see what develops." Gregor, photographer that he was, could hardly refuse such a pleasant invitation.
An hour and a half later, Gregor still had not returned with the key and Mac and Richie were beginning to worry. Suddenly, the door down the hall swung open and Gregor staggered out. "You can use the darkroom anytime, honey," Susanna called and swatted him playfully as he limped down the steps.
"Finally found the key, Mac," Greg said, tucking his shirt back into his jeans. "Susanna wanted to show me her equipment." He wondered why the two of them were glaring at him so. Hell, he realized it had taken quite a while for
Susanna to find the key where she'd hidden it, but he didn't think it had taken THAT long. She'd shown him the developing and printing tanks, the racks for hanging the photographs, and a ton of other equipment. Heck, he wouldn't mind joining the Harem himself, if Methos provided stuff like this for his ladies. Susanna had giggled mightily when she showed him the printing press, claiming it was how Methos kept his ladies and the Chateau solvent.
Mac grabbed the key and stuck it in the lock. He turned it and the heavy metal opened with a click. It took the three of them pulling together to draw back the bolt and he had to wonder how someone as lean and rangy as Methos could handle it by himself. 'Of course,' MacLeod thought, 'we're all pretty tired and sore from lugging this blasted stove all the way downstairs, but it still shouldn't have been THAT difficult.'
They pushed open the door to a darkness so absolute they couldn't see one step ahead of them. "Attilla," Mac called softly. "You in here?"
Behind him, Richie gulped loudly. "This is creepy, Mac. What say we just leave this thing tucked right inside the door and scoot back upstairs? We can come back when we've got Methos for protection." The Highlander was sorely tempted, but decided to try one more time. If there was no answer then, they'd take Richie's suggestion and haul their sorry asses upstairs. "ATTILLA!" he shouted into the darkness.
"Yo, dude! Like, what's up?" A disembodied voice called from somewhere off to their right.
"Attilla, is that you," he yelled.
"Yeah, man, like totally, fer shur!"
'Oh dear God in Heaven,' MacLeod thought fervently. 'Valley-speak. No wonder Methos kept her down here. The ONE language the Old Man DIDN'T speak fluently.'
A second later, he spotted a flickering light coming from the tunnels, followed almost immediately by a short, grubby creature in torn and mud-stained jeans, heavy work boots and a wet sweatshirt and jacket. It's short-cropped hair was plastered to it's head with mud and rainwater. Trotting closer, the being lit the torches along the walls, bringing the huge room into sharp focus.
Duncan and his two companions stood staring, struck dumb with amazement. After a moment, Gregor nudged Richie. "I can see why he keeps it down here," he whispered urgently. Richie nodded, never taking his eyes from the strange sight before them.
Part II
Attilla took off her glasses and pulled out a surprisingly clean handkerchief from one of a multitude of pockets in her heavy jacket. She rubbed the major portion of the mud and water from the lenses and then scrubbed at her face and hands. Putting the glasses back on a noble and patrician nose, she stared back at the three Immortals. "BOO!"
She didn't even shout, but both Gregor and Richie jumped about three feet, then laughed nervously. Duncan wished he'd brought his sword, but Methos had insisted all weapons be left upstairs and none of them had felt like arguing with the Old Man. It was Methos' harem, after all and if they wanted to enjoy the company of the lovely ladies, they'd have to do as they were told.
The three took stock of their surroundings. It certainly was a huge room for such a little person and right now half-unpacked boxes of books and bric-a-brac littered the polished stone floors. Above the entrance to the tunnel, a curtain of blue, silver and green beads hung over an embroidered tapestry of the same colors. Attilla's eyes followed the direction of their glance. "I'm putting a door up next week," she rasped and coughed delicately. "You're welcome to come help." She chuckled at the looks on their faces. Oooooooo boy, priceless.
"Where were you just now," Richie choked out.
"Nearly outside," she croaked, gesturing toward the tunnel entrance. "Master doesn't know it yet, but the floor slants up real nice about half a mile thataway. A couple more hours digging and I'll be a free man, er woman."
"Whatever," Richie mumbled.
Attilla glared. "Whadaya say, kid?" She glanced at her torn and blackened fingernails. "Good thing it's been raining, makes the ground a whole lot softer, you dig?" She laughed at the attempt at humor and Duncan groaned. More and more reason for Methos to hide her away. He felt almost sorry for the old boy. How he could have been roped into this, the Highlander would never know. He'd always thought Methos pretty clever, but obviously the gears had started slipping somewhere along the line.
"Would've been easier if I'd had a pick or a shovel or something besides my bare hands," Attilla moaned. "But, I could hardly ask for one, now could I?" She sighed and glanced again at the three, then at the stove. "Did you lug that down the stairs or take the elevator?" The three shared a glance. "ELEVATOR?" They chorused? "What elevator?" Neither Methos nor the lovely Cy-doc and Athena had mentioned an elevator.
"Oh, well, it's not really for freight, but it might have made the job a tad easier. You remember the elevator, don't you Richie?" Duncan and Gregor moved toward him and Richie began backing up hurriedly. "I swear I've never been down here before, Mac!" he cried in a panic.
Attilla swore softly. "You DON'T remember all the fun things Susanna and I taught you that day you came down here? Hey, bud, I know I'm not much but I never thought I was THAT forgettable."
The two older men moved closer and grabbed Richie's arms. "You KNEW there was an elevator and said NOTHING?" Duncan said through clenched teeth.
"I wore my fingers raw, for THIS?" Gregor very nearly tore the younger man's arm loose from it's socket in his fury.
Attilla was watching in something approaching dismay, but not quite. There was a certain humor to the situation after all. How many times had she sat watching certain videos and wishing just this sort of thing would happen to the little twerp. Her fondest fantasies (well almost, her fondest fantasies involved a certain slender, dark-haired, solemn-eyed, intellectual type) were finally coming true. However, time to break up the wish-bone brigade or the stove would never get installed. She sighed. The things she did for the Master.
"It gets lonely down here, sometimes." Another sigh. "Susanna is soooo busy developing everybody's pictures and printing all the harem stories we hardly have time to visit anymore." She wiped a tear from one eye - she was really good at crying on command. "And Master, well," She sighed again and glanced sideways at the three.
Duncan felt sorry for the poor thing. Although he couldn't blame Methos for not wanting the world to know he'd allowed somebody like this into the harem in the first place, he thought it was really too bad of the Master not to at least check on her once in a while. "Let us get this thing hooked up," he said gently. "Then we can all sit down and have a nice long chat." Richie and Gregor stared at him. Had he lost his mind? The only thing they wanted was to get the blasted stove installed and then run for the hills - literally. The Pyrenees or Alps came quickly to mind. Something BIG where they could hide for a long, long time - preferably until the worthy Attilla was long dust.
The entire time they were hooking up the stove to the special gas lines Methos had had installed, Attilla was busily unpacking boxes and placing her treasures on the shelves. Now and again, Duncan stole a glance at the items being pulled from their wrappers. There were at least three big boxes of books on writing which were quickly placed in the big barrister's bookshelf standing near the 'kitchen' alcove. "Planning to read while you cook, Attilla," he asked.
"Oh absolutely. I even read in the bath - not in the shower though, the books tend to get wet." She continued to chat about this and that, one thing and another or nothing at all. Did the woman NEVER run out of breath?
It took several hours, but at last they had the stove connected and ready to try out. Attilla tossed a frozen pizza in the oven and hinted strongly they might want to wash up before eating. "You've got about half an hour, so hurry it up," she said. "That means all three of you, so you might want to share. The shower's big enough." They couldn't argue, so all three headed for the huge bath and a nice warm shower. They laid their clothes on a large flat rock nearby and jumped under the waterfall cascading down the rocks that formed the basin.
They'd just started to shampoo when they heard footsteps. "Nice view, guys," called a cheery voice as Susanna sauntered through on her way to Attilla's quarters. She stopped briefly, picking up clothes for the wash. "Just grab a towel each when you're done. Clothes should be ready in an hour or two." Greg and Richie leaped for cover but could find nothing behind which to hide strategic portions of their anatomy other than their hands which did not suffice. Duncan, having had a good deal more experience with such situations, manfully stood his ground.
"Do yew ladies," he asked, pointedly emphasizing the word, "always barge through here when yew have guests trying to clean up?" His burr was noticibly thicker than was normal even for him.
"What better time, Dunkie dearest," Susanna cooed. "There certainly is no reason to 'barge through' as you so poetically phrase it, when there's no one here, now is there?" Her tone left no doubt as to what she thought of both the question and it's phaseology. Susanna, a journalist of the first order, knew well how to turn a phrase and Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod for all his nearly 405 years knew when he was hopelessly outmatched. Suddenly, something she had said struck him most forcibly.
"Wait," he shouted as she headed for the doorway. "What do you mean our clothes will be ready in an hour or two? You bring them back here right now!"
Susanna smirked. "Not on your life, toots. We're washing them so the nice clean bods will go back into nice clean clothes. If you're feeling really modest, you can borrow some of 'tilla's things. They might be a trifle short, but you might fit," she studied Duncan and the other two. "Well, actually, you wouldn't but they might." Laughing gaily, she blew them a kiss and made her way through the door and into Attilla's boudoir.
Greg and Richie looked at MacLeod nervously. "Did you see how she was looking at us, Mac?" Richie groaned.
His mentor nodded. "Uh, huh" he said succinctly. He'd have added 'like the cat that'd just spotted the canaries it meant to have for lunch', but he didn't want to frighten the other two. He was frightened enough for all three of them. Blast Methos! Why hadn't he warned them about these two fiends from Hades? Why had he sent them down here weaponless against these dark demons? Why, why, why? A thousand whys and not one answer. If he got out of this alive, he was going to have a word or several with that young old man.
Done washing, the three wrapped large towels strategically about their waists, then did a thorough search of the bathroom looking for something a bit more substantial with which to cover themselves. Alas, nothing even remotely suitable presented itself. The wretched women must have hidden anything useful for just such an occasion. They were trapped for the duration unless Methos took pity on them and organized a search party. Even MacLeod had to admit this was highly unlikely. Determined to make the best of a bad situation, the three sauntered as casually as they could into Attilla's room once more. She was nowhere in sight and all three breathed sighs of relief.
Susanna was sitting on the rug by the hearth, propped up on some pillows, notebook in hand. She glanced up. "Oh, yeah," she breathed huskily and Gregor flinched. "Very nice," she murmured flowing to her feet and rubbing her hands up over his chest and across his shoulders. "Very nice indeed." Gregor moaned and bit his lip. Susanna looked out the corner of her eye at Richie who was blushing furiously. Slowly, she backed away from Greg and moved toward the younger man. She put her hand under his chin and looked him squarely in the eyes. "Been there, done that," she murmured and turned back to Greg.
Duncan stifled a laugh behind his hand and gasped "Where's the Dungeon Master, er Mistress and how long are you planning on keeping us here?" Part of his answer came in a loud rumble from the tunnels, followed by a series of howls as Attilla crawled into the tunnel entrance. "Sue," she croaked, "could you give one of those nice genlemens a bucket of warm water and have him come slosh some of this off? I don't wanna mess the floors again."
Susanna hurried to comply. When she returned, bucket and scrub brush in hand, she studied the three towel-clad Immortals. 'Which one,' she wondered doing a quick eenie meenei miney moe in her head to decide. 'Ah, Duncan, much better able to handle himself against the wily Attilla than the more naive youngster at his side. Besides, she was having too much fun tormenting those two.' "Here," she said, handing him the bucket and brush. "Go scrub off the worst of it, will you?"
Carrying the cleaning equipment in one fist, Duncan gripped his towel tighter with the other and headed for the tunnel where Attilla knelt covered in mud, bits of leaves and branches clinging to her hair and clothing. "My tunnel collapsed," she muttered glaring up at him as though it were all his fault. "I nearly suffocated in there."
"Susanna," he called. "I dinna think one bucket'll be enough. Could you fetch another please?" He motioned the woman to scoot back as he strode forward. No sense allowing dirty water to flood those nice clean floors. When they were a safe distance into the tunnel, Duncan flung the soapy water over the mud-stained woman still kneeling at his feet and handed her the brush. "Here," he said. "Scrub yerself off and be quick aboot it." He glided swiftly back toward the entrance to fetch another bucket from Susanna.
By the time he returned, Attilla had scrubbed the worst of the mess from her hair and clothes and was ready for rinsing. Duncan obliged with a bucket of water considerably cooler than that earlier provided. 'tilla shrieked and launched herself at him, fingers clawing for his eyes. "You cretin," she screamed. She was shivering and her teeth chattering so badly, MacLeod could barely understand one word in four. He did manage to catch 'plot', 'kill', 'Master' and a few well-chosen expletives but most of it made no sense.
He covered his eyes with his hands and made to back out of reach. Suddenly, he felt a draft. The little wretch had grabbed his towel and now had it draped over her head and around her shoulders. Duncan tried to grab it back, but she scampered out of reach, cackling joyfully. "OOEEE," she hooted. "Nice tush!" Duncan tried blocking the tunnel, but Attilla flung herself on the wet floor and slid safely past. "You make a poor goalie, my lad," she called whipping the towel at his bare bottom, "but an oh so lovely target!"
She hooted once more as she slid out onto the floor of the bedroom in time to see Richie flung backwards over the pillows, blushing furiously, his eyes begging Gregor for assistance as Susanna straddled his chest. Gregor stood rooted to the spot, staring at the tunnel entrance where a buck-naked Scot had just made his appearance. Calmly, he'd learned a lot in the 350 years since Kristin, MacLeod crossed the floor toward the bath intending to fetch another towel. Susanna was staring appreciatively.
"Here," said Attilla, tossing him a white terry robe. "Put this on before she faints." He eased into the robe. It was a little short and somewhat tight through the shoulders, but it would have to do.
The pizza was finally ready, so Susanna grabbed plates while 'tilla grabbed a quick shower. Gregor and Richie made themselves useful slicing bread and tearing lettuce for salad, while Duncan cut the pizza and poured Pepsi all around. They'd just put the food on the table when Attilla reappeared.
While they ate, MacLeod kept the conversation on subjects he considered relatively safe - books, history (he was something of an expert he thought), philosophy and music. 'tilla and he very nearly came to blows when he expressed a certain disdain for one of her favorite bands, but other than that the meal went much better than he'd expected.
Part III
The afternoon was wearing well on toward evening when Methos appeared in the doorway. "Enjoying yourselves, ladies," he said smiling. The two women nodded vigorously, staring in mute adoration at the vision before them. "Oh yes, Master," one of them squeaked breathlessly. "They're every bit as much fun as you said they'd be," the other hastened to add.
Duncan, Richie and Gregor rose as one and began a slow advance on the Ancient Immortal, reminding Methos rather painfully of one of his previous deaths. He'd been caught in an avalance in the Himalayas, trapped for days and suffocating over and over again before he finally dug his way out. He did NOT want to repeat the experience.
Suddenly, his eyes widened in shock as he noticed what the younger men were wearing or rather NOT wearing; for, as they'd stood, Attilla and Susanna had each nabbed a corner of their towels. Said towels had swiftly come loose from around the younger men's waists and the 'boys' were now clad in nothing but the skin they'd been born in.
"Excuse me, gentlemen," Methos murmured. "While I'm sure the ladies appreciate the lesson in male physiology, I believe this is neither the time nor the place for an exhibition of the finer points of your anatomy. Let's have a little decorum here, if you please." Gregor and Richie yelped and ducked under the table, grabbing frantically for their towels.
Duncan continued to move inexorably toward his 'friend'. "You set us up," he hissed through clenched teeth. Methos shook his head and backed away, raising his hands placatingly.
"No, I didn't MacLeod," he said trying desperately not to laugh at the outraged Scot. "Young Gregor offered to help and the ladies and I allowed the three of you to indulge your chivalrous inclinations." He eyed Duncan up and down, taking in the 'fit' of the robe straining across the Highlander's shoulders. "That's a lovely ensemble, MacLeod," he choked, unable any longer to stifle his laughter. "Is it new?" He spun on his heel and bolted through the doorway, Duncan in close pursuit, swearing vehemently.
Gregor and Richie were still trying valiantly to retrieve both their towels and their dignity when Jag, Teri, Cy-doc, Athena and Troll Princess arrived on the scene.
"Richie," cried Troll Princess. "You're playing without ME?"
"Oh, my," breathed the other four lovely ladies, peeking under the table where the two young men huddled. "Are we having a party?"
"NO!" sobbed the two embarrassed young men.
"I think we are," cried the women.
"Helmsmen, Engage!" declared Attilla doing her best impression of the good starship Enterprise's suave and cultured captain. Six giggling ladies rushed to make it so, while Attilla high-tailed it for the door the five most recent arrivals had so carelessly left ajar. She was not one to waste an opportunity so rarely did she get out, and now, with her escape route collapsed it looked to be even longer before she saw the true light of day or night.
Down the hallway she raced, following the clashing sounds of verbal battle being waged. "Come on, MacLeod," Methos was saying. "If you'd only asked, I'd have told you anything you wanted to know. But you never asked. Just like all those hints I dropped about my past. You never asked about that either, did you? No, you had me up on a bloody pedestal and didn't want to hear anything that could lower it one iota."
'oooooo,' Attilla thought. Master sounded peeved.
"Damn it, Methos," Duncan was shouting as she rounded the corner. "You knew what she was like; you should have warned us." He had Methos pinned against the wall under the stairs, hands clutching the older man's shirt and bunching it up under his neck.
"And would you have believed me," Methos said softly. "Since when have you ever listened to me?"
"You made us leave our swords upstairs, Methos. You left us defenseless for God's sake." MacLeod was growing more frustrated by the minute, his chest heaving magificently as Attilla stared in awe. 'Boy, when he got mad . . .' she thought, wondering briefly if the Master needed any help.
"Of course I made you leave your weapons, MacLeod." Methos spoke in the calm, reasoning tone one would use with a sulky child. "No matter how annoying Attilla can be, she IS one of my ladies - I use the term loosely you understand - and I will not have her harmed, without good reason that is and only if I get to watch." He reached up and pried Duncan's fingers loose from his collar. "That's one of the reasons she lives in the basement. She'd be too much for most of the other ladies to deal with on a permanent basis without at least one of them trying to kill her."
MacLeod stepped back and shook his head. "Then why does Susanna live down here? They share a BATH for God's sake!"
Neither of the men had noticed Attilla hiding in the corner listening with all her might. This ought to be good. Methos tried to explain. "Susanna's a bit more patient with Attilla than most. Besides, I think she feels responsible for my allowing her into the harem. It was partly on her recommendation, after all, we agreed to give her a trial run as it were."
"Then toss her out," MacLeod snapped. "Give everybody a break. She can't enjoy living down here, Methos. She's trying to dig her way out and nearly got killed today." Attilla gasped. The rat had squealed!
Methos shook his head. "You don't understand MacLeod," he said wearily. "I know she's been digging; we've all seen the evidence in the garden. I've managed to convince our gardeners it's been moles, but I'm afraid I can't keep up the charade for much longer. The damage is too extensive." He smiled. "Everybody needs a hobby, MacLeod. It's good to keep busy." Methos pushed himself away from the wall and faced his friend squarely. "Besides," he said quietly. "I've grown attached. I will talk to her about the digging, though, and maybe we can let her up a bit more frequently."
Attilla grinned at that and slid back around the corner, where she tripped over a large metal bucket someone had left lying near the dungeon. Some of the scraps left over from Cassandra's last meal were still inside and bits of vegetable and rice went flying across the floor. Attilla swore and scrambled to retrive at least part of the food. You never knew when you might need it.
"Attilla," Master's voice sounded sternly right above her head. "What are you doing out here?" He took in the mess on the floor and sighed. They'd have to drag Cassandra out again to clean up the mess once MacLeod had gone home. It would never do for him to find her here. Methos knew he would never be able to explain to the man why the Harem felt it imperative to keep the woman prisoner down here with Attilla as guard. He wasn't sure he understood it himself. Sure, between the two of them, Cassandra and Cronos had very nearly made a shambles of his friendship with the brooding barbarian, but he and MacLeod had managed to patch that up and things were almost back to normal. Forgive and forget was his motto, most of the time, and though forgiveness was relatively easy - given he still had his head - forgetting was a bit more difficult with the constant reminder.
"Uh," Attilla thought fast. "I think Greg and the red-headed kid, you know the one that belongs to him," she jerked a greasy thumb in Duncan's general direction. "That is, I thought they might need some help. Yeah, that's it." Methos and Duncan waited patiently, hands on hips, for the rest of the tale to spin itself out.
"And so," Methos prompted when no more seemed to be forthcoming.
"Well," Attilla said slowly crossing her fingers behind her back, "I figured, since Sue was busy refereeing, I'd come and fetch you." Attilla took a deep breath. This spur of the moment stuff was nerve-wracking. Master almost always knew when she was lying, maybe because he was so good at it himself. She really admired his story-telling abilities.
"Refereeing what," Duncan queried, visions of Greg and Richie battling it out with dishes and bric-a-brac flitting rapidly through his head. Attilla blessed him mentally. If Dunkie believed the tale, maybe Master wouldn't be too quick to question.
"Oh, that's right! You didn't see them come in, did you?"
"Didn't see WHO come in?" Both men were growing tired of the need to prod for information they could get a lot quicker with the proper application of a little 'persuasion'.
Attilla, sensing her danger, started counting off on her fingers. "Troll-Princess," down went thumb-man. "Jag, Cy-doc, Teri," pointer-man, tall-man and ring-man followed in quick succession. Attilla bit a nail. Who was that other wench who'd grabbed her little Gregor just before she'd dashed into the hallway? "Oh, yeah," little- man joined his fellows, "ATHENA!" She glanced at the two Immortals standing over her and tried to clamber to her feet. If they were going to kill her, as looked likely, she'd go standing not kneeling like some coward and by thunder she'd put up a fight. Unfortunately, she slipped again on a piece of carrot and sat down hard.
"Really," Methos asked. He hadn't noticed anyone as he'd run through the passages, but then he'd been concentrating on staying ahead of MacLeod. An easy feat, given his own speed and endurance due to the many marathons he'd run in the past. He still kept in shape, thanks in part to the lovely ladies of the Harem, but MacLeod had had rightous indignation on his side and it had been a close race right up until Methos had slammed into the wall by the stairs. Surely, though, he would have noticed a whole troupe of his lovely ladies traipsing around down here.
Duncan and Methos shared a glance. "I suppose we should go rescue them, MacLeod?" Methos ventured.
"Aye, or join them," MacLeod replied as Methos helped Attilla to her feet and tried brushing her off. She seemed a little faint and Duncan noticed her eyes starting to glaze as she stared at Methos. What was it with these women anyway? Sure, Methos was cute in a piss-ant grad student sort of way, but for them to go ga-ga over the old man the way they did was beyond enough. Duncan wasn't used to playing second or third fiddle where the ladies were concerned and it bothered him just a bit. He wasn't jealous, oh no, just confused at their lack of taste.
Methos steadied the wobbly Attilla, then swept a courtly bow. "Lead the way, my dear, we'll be right behind you." He said gravely, giving her a gentle push in the proper direction.
Down the hallway she trotted, Methos and Duncan following closely, and back to her room where the party was in full swing. 'Life is good,' she thought happily picking up a notebook and settling in to watch the fun.
