The job started off bizarre, and then got weirder as it went
along.
First off, we were hired by means of a letter, delivered through the post just like we were the proper haberdasher or respectable jeweler. Not your normal method of employment for a strangler, don't you know?
But there it was, big as life, a letter requesting our professional services. Just a note, really.
Dear Mr. Greyboar:
I find I have need of a professional strangler. Having made inquiries in the proper quarters, I have been assured that you are the very finest practitioner currently active in the trade. Would you be so good as to come to my Abbey? The work will need to be done here.
I shall, of course, reimburse you for all travel expenses, as well as paying your standard fee. I might mention that a very handsome bonus will be provided as well, upon satisfactory completion of the choke.
Sincerely yours,
Abbess Hildegard
Abbey of the Sisters of Tranquility
"The Abbess Hildegard!" exclaimed Greyboar. "What in the world could she possibly want with me?"
His puzzlement was understandable. Of course, we knew who the Abbess was, at least in a general way. She was famous—notorious, more precisely. The Twelve Popes had excommunicated her years earlier. She'd ignored them, just as she ignored every pronouncement coming from the Temple of the Ecclesiarchs. Rather irritated they got, the Popes, to put it mildly.
First, they talked the Queen of Sfinctria, Belladonna III, into sending the Seventh Cavaliers to raze the Abbey and deliver Hildegard over to the Inquisition. Then, after the Seventh Cavaliers disappeared in Joe's Favorite Woods (that's the forest which surrounds the Abbey), the Queen sent the whole Third Royal Regiment to do the job. After they disappeared, she gave it up. Got in quite a tiff with the Ecclesiarchy about the whole thing.
So, finally, the Ecclesiarchy pulled out all the stops and ordered the gentle monks of the monastery of St. Shriven-on-the-Moor into action. The gentle monks murmured and muttered amongst themselves, working up their usual pogromist fury. But then, to everyone's astonishment, they settled down and told the Popes they couldn't do it. Seems they'd gotten a vision from the Old Geister himself, the gist of which was that falling on the Abbey of the Sisters of Tranquility would be a really stupid move.
The Popes weren't happy about it, but they didn't get where they are by being fools. Not even the Ecclesiarchy in full regalia was about to get into a serious quarrel with the gentle monks of the monastery of St. Shriven-on-the-Moor. Take their visions seriously, the monks do.
The point is, any old lady who'd been able to handle all of that without—so far as anybody could tell—even working up a sweat, well, what would she need a strangler for? What I mean to say is, your average chokester's employer is the type who can't handle their own rough work. We really didn't get much business from people who could make whole armies vanish.
I wasn't keen on taking the job, myself. The Abbey was a fair ways off. Sure, and the Abbess Hildegard said she'd reimburse our travel expenses, but so what? While we were out of town, who knows what lucrative Greyboar-acceptable "ethically correct" choke might come up. Besides, promenading through the countryside sucks. Wafting down a river on a luxury barge is one thing; traipsing through a primeval forest is another story altogether.
Greyboar was of the same opinion, so I figured that was that. Until he mentioned the letter to the Cat over dinner that night.
The Cat had made one of her periodic reappearances early that morning. As soon as they heard, Jenny and Angela came over and invited us all to their house for a big dinner. With all the fancy trimmings. Then charged off with me in tow. They said they needed someone to carry all the provisions they were going to buy.
I was still complaining when we got back to their house. Partly from the labor—a lot of provisions—but mostly from responsible financial concerns. "This cost a lot of money," I whined. (Oh, sure. Did you think I let them pay for it? A man loses his pride, he's got nothing. Especially a little man.)
Jenny was on tiptoe, hauling one of the big pots down from its hook on the kitchen wall. "You've got money, Ignace," she retorted. "Plenty enough to afford a modest little feast."
"Sure do!" added Angela. "And we didn't ask you to pay for it, anyway." She was doing something with dough and a rolling pin over at the counter, flour up to her elbows. " 'A man loses his pride, 'e's got nothing,' " she mimicked, giggling.
Jenny slammed the pot onto the stove. "I'm amazed Greyboar doesn't roll right off his bed, as much loot as you've got stashed under it."
"Business is slow," I whined.
Jenny's hair had grown so long it hung down to her waist. She started doing that incredibly complicated and quick-graceful thing that women with long hair do when they coil it up out of the way that I love to watch when it's Jenny doing it. Smiling like a cherub all the while.
"Bullshit," she retorted. "Business is exclusive. As in: top drawer."
"That's right!" piped Angela. She'd finished whatever she'd been doing with the dough and was washing her arms. Then, snatching up a towel and starting to dry herself, she marched out of the kitchen. A moment or two later she was back, clutching a thick book in her hands.
I recognized it, and couldn't stop myself from wincing.
"The latest edition!" she announced. "Jenny and I bought it not two days ago." She plopped the tome onto the kitchen table and started rifling through the pages.
"I know what it says," I growled. I'd bought a copy of it myself, the day before. A professional has to stay abreast of developments in his field, don't you know? And Jane's The World's Perps is the definitive record.
"Here it is, right at the beginning of the section on stranglers. 'Greyboar. Category: Professional. Class: Super-heavyweight. Rating: AAA.' And there's—"
"I know what it says!"
"—even an addendum. And I quote: 'Our AAA rating may well be obsolete, as by all accounts the chokester often known as "The Thumbs of Eternity" perhaps requires his own AAAA rating. With the possible exception of Ozar's Pythoneus—' "
"That twerp!" I grit my teeth. "That poseur! No way he's—"
Angela blithely drove over me: " '—no other strangler currently in practice can be considered in the same league.' "
She closed the book with a flourish. "So there!"
While she'd been talking, Jenny had left. Now she came back into the kitchen, clutching another book. A very slender volume, with the kind of loose-leaf binding where you can remove the separate pages.
I recognized that one also, of course, and didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Or scream.
I settled for growling. "You shouldn't be spending money on that kind of useless stuff."
"We earn enough from our sewing!" snapped Jenny. She plopped the book onto the table next to the other. A mouse next to an elephant.
"This is the one we'd really like to see you guys in," said Angela, softly. "You'd even get mentioned yourself, Ignace, right there in the text, instead of just being a footnote."
I curled my lip. "Yeah, sure I would. For about a month." I marched up to the table and flipped open the new book. Then, pointed to the binding.
"You wanna know why it's loose-leaf?" I demanded. "That's because the thing is obsolete the day it comes out of the printers. Half of everybody in it is already dead. Or crippled or maimed or locked in a lunatic asylum or being exorcised on account of they're possessed by demons."
I gave the book my very finest sneer. "Jane's The World's Heroes, Champions, Knights-Errant, Paladins, Gallants, Chevaliers, Lion-Hearts, Valiants, Exemplars, Beau Ideals, Paragons, Non-Plus-Ultras, Shining Lights, And Other Loose Screws And Goofballs. Ha! Fat chance!"
Angela shook her head fiercely. "It's different! Greyboar could do it!"
"So could you," murmured Jenny. Her finger stroked the open pages. "You'd be real good at it, Ignace. Really you would, if you put your mind to it."
"That's right!" chimed in Angela. "And you guys could survive too!"
"Survive what? Monsters and mayhem and murtherous demons? Maybe." I planted my hands on the table and gave them my superb man-of-the-world stare. "Did you look at the companion volume? The one that takes a wheelbarrow to haul around?"
Silence. But they were still glaring at me. Unreasonable women!
Again, my magnificent sneer. "Oh, sure. Jane's The World's Toast. Last edition I saw was up to four thousand pages. And guess what's listed as the cause of death, more often than not?"
Still glaring. As bad as Gwendolyn!
"Starvation, that's what! Or falling under the talons of a chicken due to weakness from beriberi and dysentery!" I really put the sneer into overdrive. "I can see it already. Me and Greyboar staggering through the Flankn, with signs around our necks. 'Will derring-do for food.' "
Still glaring!
"You could do it," insisted Jenny. Her voice was soft, but firm for all that. "You could!" chipped in Angela. More tempestuous, as usual.
The silent standoff that followed lasted for maybe a minute or so. Then I turned and stalked out of the kitchen. Once in the little living room, I plunked myself down in a chair and glared at the wall, my arms crossed over my chest.
After a while, Jenny and Angela drifted into the room. I ignored them for a bit, until Angela plopped herself in my lap and gave me a big kiss. That was hard to ignore. So were Jenny's hands, rubbing my shoulders.
"S'okay," murmured Angela. "We love you anyway. And you're a hero to us, even if you're a perp to the rest of the world."
"It's not fair," I muttered. "Pay's good. Work's steady."
Jenny kissed the top of my head. "And what else do you ever get in this world?"
"Not fair," I repeated. "I never asked for any damned philosophy."
By now they were pretty much impossible to ignore, and I discovered I wasn't trying anymore. Rather the opposite, actually. Sometime later, Jenny went back to the kitchen to do something or other. After a bit, Angela followed. Before she left, she kissed me and whispered: "You guys could do it. Jenny and I know you could."
Not fair!
It was a very nice feast. Even if I wasn't in a good mood. Over the brandy afterward—I bought it, without anybody even pestering me—the Cat rose and made a toast.
"Here's to adventure!"
I kept my mouth shut, shut, shut, shut. Greyboar, of course, slurped down the toast and so did Jenny and Angela.
Then the Cat continued: "I think you should definitely take up the Abbess' invitation."
I groaned. Silently, I think. I'm not sure, because the minute the Cat made that announcement Jenny and Angela were chattering like magpies wanting to know what it was about. As soon as they found out, they immediately joined in with the Cat pushing the silly idea on Greyboar. I squawked and protested, but it was no use. Greyboar caved in right away. I swear, the man was an absolute patsy in the hands of women!
Then, naturally—I saw this coming a mile away—Jenny and Angela wanted to go along. The Cat said she couldn't herself, on account of looking for Schrödinger, but she thought it was a great idea. Then, naturally, Greyboar caved in again.
Then, naturally, Jenny and Angela wanted to travel to the Abbey on horseback. Fastest way to get there, they said. But at least here Greyboar put his foot down.
"Not a chance," he said. "First of all, you girls have never ridden a horse in your lives. Second, the critters always get surly, having to carry me. And Ignace doesn't see eye to eye with the beasts, either. They take one look at him and figure why should they take orders from this character who isn't much bigger than a lump of sugar." (I resented that, even though it was true.) "So we'll hire a coach. A big one. What the hell? The Abbess said she'd pay the travel expenses."
A big one, I thought sourly. Translation: expensive.
But I didn't say anything. Although my tone was probably surly when I said I'd go out and rent one. The one bright spot in the whole thing was that I figured I could hire Oscar and his gang to drive the great thing. Sure, they were all a bunch of kids, who usually hauled people around in their home-built rickshaws. But even at his age—eleven, he was then—Oscar was as good as a professional teamster.
The following day, around lunchtime, I went out looking for Oscar. I found him in the stable where he and his boys usually hang out, not far from The Trough.
And discovered that my "bright spot" had become a conflagration.
I'd always known Hrundig was probably as strong as a bull. But "knowing" in the abstract is one thing. Having your arms clamped to your chest and his iron-bar forearm ready to crush your throat is something else entirely.
I think I may have gurgled. Not sure. My vision was getting blurry and I could barely see anything in the dark interior of the stable. Just enough to see Olga Frissault and her daughters huddling fearfully in one of the stalls. Oscar and his lads were huddling in another. They didn't look fearful. They looked terrified.
I heard a grunt behind me, and the pressure left my chest and throat. "Sorry, Ignace," Hrundig muttered. "Didn't realize it was you."
I took a couple of steps forward, gasping for breath. "Who'd you think it was?" I complained, massaging my throat. "How many red-headed, freckled footpads are there, less than five feet tall?" I suspect my tone was, ah, peevish.
By now, Hrundig had padded around to stand in front of me. He had that thin, merciless grin on his face.
"None, that I know of. But there's probably a thousand informers in the city fit your description. Close enough, anyway."
My eyes flicked back and forth from him to the Frissault women. I didn't understand anything of what was happening, mind you. But I am:
1. Not stupid.
2. Pessimistic.
3. A student of the wise man. Among whose saws, of
course, is the classic: "Never try to think of the worst
thing that could happen. It's bound to be worse than
that anyway."
"No," I groaned. My mind raced like wild horses, trying to think of the worst. "Olga and the girls are Joeist heretics, fleeing from the Inquisition."
Hrundig grinned. "Dead on the money. But it's worse than that, Ignace. They were found out and arrested two weeks ago. Judge Jeffreys set their bail at two hundred thousand quid, no doubt on the assumption that nobody could come up with that kind of money. I wracked my brains trying to figure out a way to spring them, but it was impossible. You know what the Durance Pile is like. Take an army to break into it."
My mind raced like the wind, trying to think of the worst. "Somebody figured out a way to do it. You? Must have robbed the Royal Treasury."
Hrundig shook his head again. "Worse. Benvenuti came up with the bail money. Got them out yesterday before Jeffreys got wind of what was happening, and turned them over to me."
My mind raced like a hurricane, trying to think of the worst. "He defrauded a noble client," I croaked. "The Queen herself."
Hrundig's grin widened. "Worse. He defrauded the Church. Cardinal Megatherio in particular, but the whole Church is in a frenzy because he—ah! Never mind the details."
My mind raced like a meteor, trying to think of the worst. "He's on the run. All the forces of Church and State are out looking for him. And the Frissaults too."
The headshake was inevitable. "Worse. They already caught him. He led them a merry chase, but he figured he could draw the pursuit away from me and Olga and the girls long enough for us to find a hiding place. Which he did. But now he's in the hands of the Inquisition."
My mind raced like—like—
Hrundig laughed. "Relax, Ignace! You take the wise man too seriously. Benvenuti won't be spilling his guts yet. He told me he was sure he could hold out for at least a day before he started lying. Another day before they untangled his lies, and another before he'd have to spill the truth. Which gives me two days to figure out a way to get Olga and the girls out of town. I'll have to leave too, of course. No way to keep my involvement a secret."
He moved his eyes away from me, and looked over at Oscar and his friends. "I brought us here because I knew Oscar and the boys could be trusted. And since it's a stable, maybe we could jury-rig some way to get us out of town without being spotted."
His smile was no longer in evidence. "It's not looking good, though. None of the vehicles in this claptrap place are anywhere big enough. Not for all of us. But I'm hoping I might still get the girls out. Olga and I will take our chances."
I started choking. Hrundig cocked a quizzical eye.
"The hell I take the wise man too seriously!" I snarled. Then, feeling lightheaded, I squatted down, crossed my arms over my chest, and glared at the straw-strewn dirt of the stable floor.
" 'Never try to think of the worst thing that could happen,' " I mimicked in a mutter. " 'It's bound to be worse than that anyway.' "
The worst!
"What's your problem?" demanded Hrundig.
"It's not fair!" I exclaimed. "I never asked for any damned—"
I bit it off. What was the point? Sighing heavily, I came back up to my feet. "Never you worry, Hrundig. I'll get you out of here."
I crooked a finger at Oscar and the boys. "Come on, lads. I'll need you to pick out the right one."
Not fair!