Chapter 3: Highway Robbery

From the darkness of the inn's small stable, Timoteo watched the bandit gallop away. He watched as Bess, sweet, fair Bess, reached out a silk-clad arm and closed her shutters tightly. And for the first time in many a moon, the stable-hand had a gleam of hope in his slate-gray eyes.

For Timoteo loved Bess – more than that, was obsessed with her. But the lass had never paid him any mind. When she would come to the stable to ride her horse Blackie, she scarcely said two words to him. She never noticed that Blackie's feed-box contained the best oats. She never noticed that Blackie was always painstakingly groomed and curried. She never noticed how the horse's saddle was polished until Timoteo could see his reflection shining in its surface. Nor did she notice his shy smile, or the way his hand lingered on her own when he helped her into the saddle. Then this...this bandit, this common robber appeared at the inn, and she noticed him.

Over the past few moons Timoteo had almost despaired of life. He always found sleep to be an elusive thing, up in his drafty loft above the stable, lying on prickly straw and hard boards, a thin blanket his only protection from the cold bite of the wind that came howling through the cracks in the wall. The highwayman's nocturnal visits had not gone unnoticed by the stable-hand, no matter how quietly the thief entered the inn-yard. The rusty wheels of Timoteo's conniving mind had slowly begun to turn, once he realized that this lover was in fact the infamous highwayman. If only he could...but there was no discernible pattern to the bandit's visits.

Tonight when the highwayman had come again, Timoteo had, as usual, listened earnestly, silently, from the black depths of the loft. The voices were too hushed, dammit! They were always too hushed. Then at the last, the wind, that immortal enemy of his, had inexplicably relented, had turned, and Timoteo had caught a few words – no more that one sentence – but it was enough. "Tomorrow night when the moon is full."

The stable-hand ran callused fingers through his stringy blond hair – hair that was the same color as the moldy straw he slept on. And an evil smile parted his thin lips. Bess would not be the only one waiting for the thief in the moonlight, oh no. And once the highwayman was dead, who would she turn to for consolation? Who would be there with a listening ear and a kind word? Who would offer tender sympathy and a shoulder to cry on? Timoteo, of course. And once Bess was done grieving for that wretch, that law-breaker, Timoteo swore that she would be his. The stable-hand wrapped his thin blanket around his narrow shoulders, left the darkness of the stable, and started quickly down the white road toward town and the militia captain's home.


Captain Tentara of the watch had grown particularly fond of the gnome-made muskets the town had recently purchased for him and his men. He enjoyed the acrid scent of the gunpowder burning. He enjoyed the sharp report when the weapons were fired, as well as the accompanying cloud of smoke. But what he enjoyed most about the muskets was the destruction they wreaked – how the lead ball would rip through a thick wooden target effortlessly, leaving a jagged hole in its wake. "Little gnome buggers finally got something right," he thought derisively. And tonight, if what the grimy stable-hand had told him was true, they would finally get to test their new muskets, not only on crude wooden targets, but on the smelly hide of the notorious highwayman.


The gold transport was making good time, and the road was all but deserted. The two guards in the back of the coach were animatedly discussing which of the barmaids at the Cup & Kettle was the prettiest. The third and fourth guard were singing a bawdy song, and the driver was just trying to stay awake.

"...Wearin' nothin' more than th' gods had graced 'im with upon his birth! Wearin–" Suddenly the taller of the two front guards stopped singing and elbowed his partner in his ample gut. "Do you smell jasmine?" he hissed.

The tubby guard smiled lewdly. "Who's Jasmine?" he asked eagerly.

"Not who, you idiot," the gangley man answered. "Jasmine's a flower."

"A flower?"

"Yes, a flower, alright? But it doesn't grow around here, and–"

There was a sticky sounding splat, followed immediately by another, and both driver and guards found themselves covered from neck to knees with a viscous, green goop.

"What the hells?"

The driver's question was answered as the highwayman emerged from the darkness, swung down from his mount, and stopped their own frightened horses, all the while brandishing sword and pistol. He was immaculately dressed, and smelled of jasmine.

"Good evening gentlemen," the highwayman intoned politely. "Don't bother getting up."

The goo-covered trio struggled frantically, but found themselves completely and utterly entangled.

The two guards in the back of the wagon leapt out, swords in hand, and immediately began circling to either side of the robber.

"Now, now gentlemen," Jarlaxle warned, leveling his pistol. "Over against those trees please."

The guards exchanged a brief, puzzled look and continued their synchronous advance. This flowery-smelling skinny thief with the expensive clothes and the laughable sword should be no problem to take down.

Jarlaxle raised an eyebrow but held his ground. "Don't tell me," he said incredulously, "that you've never seen a pistol before." He waved the item in question menacingly.

"A...what-now?" the red-haired guard on his right inquired.

The swordsman on Jarlaxle's left took the opportunity to lunge. The highwayman's thin rapier shot out, taking the blade. Jarlaxle deftly twisted his wrist, and the larger sword went flying. Immediately the tip of the rapier came to rest against the hollow of the unfortunate man's throat. "A pistol," he repeated to the second guard, as though their conversation had never been interrupted. "Allow me to demonstrate."

Uncertain, the red-head gave a curt not, remaining where he was.

"Attack him, you idiot! Attack!" the first guard bellowed, despite the sword at his windpipe.

Without warning Jarlaxle pivoted, lowering his rapier even as he reversed his grip on the pistol, and smashed the butt of the weapon into the man's temple. The guard dropped to the ground like a stone, unconscious.

"Now then," said the highwayman pleasantly, looking back to the remaining guard – "a demonstration." He holstered the pistol that was in his right hand, but kept the rapier in his left. Reaching into a pocket, he produced, of all things, an apple. "Observe." Jarlaxle tossed the apple into the air, watched as it reached its apex and began to descend, the drew the pistol in a blur and shot. Four feet from the ground the apple exploded, bits of sticky flesh and seeds spraying out in every direction.

Without a word the red-headed guard dropped his sword.

"Wise decision," Jarlaxe complimented, and strode forward to claim his gold.


A/N: In progress. Review, por favor :)