"Gwendolyn?" asked Greyboar, his jaw sagging. "My sister?"
The Abbess looked at him. "Of course, Gwendolyn. How else would I have gotten your name and address?" She frowned. "Surely you don't think I keep a list of the world's great chokesters in my study? After all! I am the Abbess of the Sisters of Tranquility."
"Gwendolyn?" he repeated. "My sister?" His jaw was now down to his chest.
The Abbess' frown grew deeper. "Oh, dear," she said, "Gwendolyn told me you were a stupid jackass. But I just thought she was being harsh and unforgiving, like she usually is. I didn't realize she meant you were actually retarded."
Greyboar's jaw snapped shut. He glowered.
"That dirty, rotten—" He stopped, but the glower didn't.
"Oh, what a relief," sighed the Abbess. "It would have been difficult, the job ahead, with a moron for a chokester."
Time for the agent to take center stage. "And just exactly what is this job you—"
But she cut me off with a gesture. "Oh, not tonight! Tomorrow we'll have plenty of time to discuss the job. Actually, we'll need most of the day to get everything prepared. We really weren't expecting you so soon. But no business tonight! Tonight is for music."
Her gaze now moved to Olga Frissault, who was listening to the music with rapt attention. "I'm afraid I've not been introduced to your companions," the Abbess said pleasantly.
Greyboar and I both flushed. Well, he did. So I can only assume that I did also, since my skin is about as fair as any redhead's ever gets.
"Sorry," I muttered. Then, I hesitated. On the outs or not, the Abbess was still part of the Church. I wasn't at all sure how she was going to react to the presence of outright heretics—especially Joeists!—even if Olga had insisted that there wouldn't be any problems.
As it happened, Olga herself took the plunge.
"I'm Olga Frissault, and these are my daughters," she announced quietly. "I'm the widow of—"
"Dreadful!" exclaimed the Abbess. "Absolutely dreadful!" She reared up to her full towering height, glaring furiously. I braced myself for a ruckus.
"Bad enough the Inquisition should treat anyone in that manner!" the Abbess snapped. "But to have done so to one of Grotum's greatest artists! Dreadful!"
A moment later she was giving Olga that giantess embrace. Then, the girls. As huge as she was, Hildegard managed to hug all three of them in one swoop.
My jaw was probably hanging loose. The Frissault woman was the widow of an artist? A famous one, to boot? Plump, cheerful, unassuming Olga? The same Olga who had a thing going with a rude and crude barbarian?
What was the world coming to?!
Then I remembered the way Olga had browbeaten the lackeys in that exclusive lodge, and all those weird little ways in which Hrundig didn't fit the image of a proper Alsask. And then—finally—the name registered.
Frissault? That Frissault? One of the few artists I'd ever actually heard of?! One of Grotum's most famous national martyrs?! Olga's husband?!
I was probably muttering to myself. I hate being caught unawares, like some kind of country bumpkin. However, while I was staggering to catch up, things were progressing apace.
"You'll be seeking asylum, of course," the Abbess announced. "In the Mutt, eventually, I should think. But, for the moment, welcome to the Abbey. You'll be quite safe here, until whatever arrangements you need can be made for your further travels. Or, if you prefer, you may stay here indefinitely."
Olga was smiling now. Then, chuckling. "You do understand, Abbess, that we are Joeists. So we're in the odd position of seeking asylum in a Church institution from—ah, from—"
"The Lord Almighty Himself," finished Hildegard. "I fail to see the problem. Really! Sauce for the gander, sauce for the goose. It would be quite unethical for the Old Geister to insist on being made an Exception to His own rules, now wouldn't it?"
My brain groped with the peculiar logic involved with that last remark. I'm no theologian, to put it mildly, but I always thought the whole point of the exercise was that God was the exception to the rules.
But Hildegard didn't leave me any time to flounder. She had already embraced Hrundig and Jenny and Angela, and was turning away, motioning all of us to follow.
"Come," she commanded. "Let me introduce you to the others."
When we were introduced to the Blockhead, he gave us a polite but distant greeting. A fierce-looking man, he was. I was awestruck, myself. Everybody says he's the world's greatest composer. Except when they say that Gramps is the world's greatest composer, and he was the one we were introduced to next. Now Gramps was another kettle of fish entirely. He was one of the nicest and friendliest old gents you'll ever run into, whether or not he or the Blockhead is the world's greatest composer. Which is what everybody argues about except when they're arguing that the Deadbeat is the world's greatest composer, and he was the one we were introduced to next. Huh! Maybe he is the world's greatest composer, I wouldn't know. But he was certainly a silly little chap. Vulgar, too.
But the truth is, like most lowlifes, my taste runs to opera. And so the big thrill of the evening was being introduced to the Big Banjo and his old lady.
We'd met before, actually, but under the circumstances at the time I was sure he wouldn't have noticed us in the crowd.
I was wrong. He interrupted the Abbess halfway through the introduction.
"I am already acquainted with the gentlemen, Hildegard," he said. "In point of fact, I am deeply in their debt. These two were among the stalwarts who defended me at The Sign of the Trough upon that occasion when the Ecclesiarchs' lackeys set upon me in the streets of New Sfinctr. Outraged, they were, at the implications of my latest opera. Fortunately, 'twas close to the Flankn, so I was able to effect my escape. Even so, it would have been sticky had it not been for the proper Trough-men."
"Wasn't just us," rumbled Greyboar modestly. "Whole Flankn turned out, once the word spread. Gave the bootlickers quite the drubbing, we did." Greyboar actually blushed a little. "Nothing really, for the national hero of Grotum."
About the only thing that would arouse Greyboar's very, very, very faint tinge of pan-Groutchery was the Big Banjo's music. The chorus, sure, like everybody else, but he actually knew most of the other operas, too. Fortunately, he didn't sing them.
The Big Banjo studied Greyboar intently. "Gwendolyn's brother, are you not?"
Mutely, Greyboar nodded. The Big Banjo cocked his head a bit. "You wouldn't, by any chance, have any of your sister's vocal talent?"
I choked. Greyboar grinned. The Big Banjo sighed.
"Pity," he mused. "I've written the most splendid opera especially for her voice. She sang a few arias from it, when she and that marvelous Benvenuti fellow arrived in the Mutt some time ago. Months and months, it's been now."
He shook his head ruefully. "But—you know Gwendolyn! She spurned all my pleas. Said she'd only return to singing after the revolution triumphed."
Greyboar wasn't grinning anymore. I looked down at the parquet floor. Scowling fiercely, I imagine. Of all my memories of Gwendolyn, her voice probably hit the sorest spot.
Especially when she sang. No woman in the world had a voice like Gwendolyn's. Sure as hell not when she was cutting loose with it. A contralto profundo, you could call it—and strong enough to shake whole buildings.
When we were kids, we always figured she'd wind up in the opera house. That was our dream, actually. I'd be her manager and Greyboar'd be her bodyguard. Then—
Sigh. Then one of the pogroms hit. A family of dwarves scurried into our ramshackle little house, begging for mercy and shelter. There was a small mob pounding on their heels, led by a handful of monks.
Greyboar and I hesitated, but Gwendolyn was out the door with her cleaver before the dwarves got more than two sentences out. Sixteen years old, she was then, but she'd already reached her full size. The monk at the head of the mob got his head split before he screeched two words out. "Split," as in pumpkin.
Then the rest of the mob started swarming Gwendolyn, and the issue of hesitation was a moot point. By the time it was all over, what was left of the mob was in what they call "full retreat." Between them, Greyboar and Gwendolyn must have mangled a good dozen, including all four of the monks. I did for a couple of the pogromists myself. Small as I was, even at that age I knew how to use a knife in close quarters better than just about anybody except maybe your best muggers.
Sigh. That's when all our plans went right off the cliff. Because Gwendolyn wasn't satisfied with just rescuing the dwarves. She insisted on escorting them to the nearest refuge, and before you knew it she was involved with the Underground Railroad herself, and before she knew it she'd joined up with the revolution and The Roach, and before you knew it—
Sigh.
Fortunately, an interruption arrived to break the mood of the moment.
"The heart of the Flankn, is The Trough," came a new voice. It was the Grump, extending his hand.
"I am also acquainted with the gentlemen," he said, "an acquaintance I shall enjoy renewing. It's the one thing I still regret about leaving my hometown. Best ale in the world, The Trough's."
That lightened things up quite a bit, talking about ale instead of Gwendolyn. And, as it turned out, it really was a great evening once we got over our shyness at being in such august company.
Really august company, you understand. Kings and nobles and bishops be damned, Greyboar and I sneered at 'em once we took their money. These were composers! Really pretty much like average blokes, once you got to know them. Especially Gramps. He was like everybody's favorite great-uncle that they wished they had but didn't.
The next morning we had a wonderful breakfast. The food was great, but what was even better was that we were serenaded by a small ensemble playing one of the Deadbeat's divertimenti. With the Deadbeat himself conducting! He seemed much the more pleasant individual in the morning. I decided to write off his gaucheries the night before to too much drink. A terrible thing, too much drink. I know whereof I speak.
A leisurely pace, they had at the Abbey. It wasn't until midafternoon that Greyboar and I were summoned to Hildegard's study by one of the Sisters. The invitation didn't actually include Jenny and Angela, but they came along anyway and the Sister didn't make any objection.
The Sister led the way, in and around and back and forth and up this flight of stairs and down that one and back around and back up another flight of stairs—etc., etc. I was totally lost after three minutes. It really was a huge place, the Abbey. Much bigger than it had looked the night before in the dark.
But finally we were ushered into Hildegard's study. It was quite a room, that study. Enormous, it was, with floor-to-ceiling bookcases covering two of the walls. A great bay window on a third wall opened onto the Woods beyond. The last wall was only half a wall, because there was a huge alcove leading off, filled with what looked at first glance like tombstones, oddly enough. Then I saw small flames flickering amid the stones, and decided it must be some kind of peculiar fireplace.
In the center of the room, just slightly off toward the window, was the Abbess' desk. Like everything else in the room, the desk was built to large scale. Beautiful desk, made of maple or cherry or some kind of fancy wood. Covered with papers.
All this, however, I noticed later. Upon first entering the room, my attention was immediately drawn to the floor, which was completely covered by a thick rug.
Most of which rug was not actually visible, because it was covered in turn with a gigantic snarl.
Our eyes, you can well imagine, were focused entirely on the snarl. Well, my eyes and Greyboar's. Angela and Jenny were huddled behind us, pressed close. Although I'm sure they were peeking within seconds. Curiosity always overrode everything else with those two, even outright terror.
The first time I'd ever seen a snarl close up it was lunging at me with its great maw agape, roaring and bellowing with rage. Bit sticky that would have been, even with Greyboar on the scene, if it hadn't turned out that the wizard Zulkeh's apprentice—a dwarf kid named Shelyid, I believe I've mentioned him before—was a snarl-friend. If you're wondering what a snarl-friend is, just stick around. You'll find out soon.
This snarl presented quite a different image. It was lying there—she, to be precise, and it pays to be precise when it comes to snarls—for all the world like a tabby cat. Lying on her side, stretched out, dozing. When we came in, the monster awoke from her snooze, raised her head, eyed us once, yawned (horrible sight, that, really is), and went back to sleep.
"Do come in!" exclaimed Hildegard, looking up from her desk. She was apparently in the middle of writing a letter.
Greyboar coughed. "Wouldn't want to disturb the snarl, we wouldn't."
"What?" asked Hildegard. She looked down at the monster. "Oh, nonsense, you won't disturb her. Quite difficult to disturb a snarl, actually. Especially Rose, she's really the most even-tempered snarl I know."
"I didn't think they could be tamed," I mumbled.
The Abbess frowned. "Oh, dear. Gwendolyn told me you were a wicked little man, but I actually got the impression that you were quite bright. I must have misunderstood her."
She pursed her lips, thinking, then continued:
"Oh, well. I suppose it won't be much of a problem, having a moron of an agent present. Although I would have thought someone in your occupation would need more brains than a rabbit."
The odd thing was, I wasn't even offended. The Abbess had this way of being offensive without—I don't quite know how to put it—without there being anything personal in it. You got the impression that the fact she thought you were an imbecile wasn't meant as a slur on you, it was just a fact that had to be taken into account.
Offended or not, I set her straight. "I'm as smart as a whip!" I exclaimed. "And I know snarls can't be tamed. I should know! Didn't I have to listen to an endless lecture by the wizard Zulkeh on the subject? Complete with footnotes and bibliographic citations! It's just that—"
She rose to her feet with excitement. "You've met Zulkeh? When? Where? I've been trying to reach him for months!"
I shook my head, trying to clear it. The Abbess seemed to have this thing about going off on tangents. Greyboar answered her.
"We met him in Prygg. Last year. After—well, after concluding some business with him there, we traveled together with him for part of our way back to New Sfinctr. He and his apprentice, Shelyid. We parted company with them in Blain. They were headed south to the Mutt."
"The Mutt?" She frowned, then sighed. "Of course, of course. On his way to see Uncle Manya, I suppose."
She wasn't dumb, that was sure. Tangent-brained, maybe, but not dumb.
"That's right," rumbled Greyboar.
"Oh, dear. Oh, dear. I suppose it's too late now, then."
"Too late for what?" I demanded.
She looked at me for a moment, as if deciding something.
"Well, I suppose there can't be any harm in telling you. You must already know, anyway. You see, Zulkeh's gotten himself mixed up in the Joe business."
I knew it! I knew we should have passed up this job! Anything involves Gwendolyn, it's going to get you into the Big Soup Pot, sure as sunrise.
"That's why I was trying to reach him while he was still in Goimr," continued the Abbess. "I sent him a letter, warning him to steer clear of the thing. I knew if he dug into it, Zulkeh would break open the Joe problem before the world was ready. He's a terribly talented mage, you know, but without the sense of a chicken. Sorcerous bungling raised to the level of genius."
She eased herself back into the chair, chuckling rather ruefully. "Not that he probably would have heeded me. He's as stubborn as he is maladroit. But, it's all a moot point anyway. The message apparently never reached him. It was returned to me."
Here she frowned fiercely. "Impudent rascals! Look at this!" She dug into a desk drawer and drew forth a letter. The letter had been torn open, then resealed. A crude outline of a black hand had been drawn on the outside.
"My letter was opened by the authorities in Goimr. They sent it back to me, with an accompanying note saying that the wizard Zulkeh was under death sentence in Goimr—there's some new regime there now, it seems—and warning me to avoid any further contact with him. Can you believe the cheek? Even threatened my life, the silly fools. Warned me of the 'wrath of the Black Hand of Goimr.' "
"What's the 'Black Hand of Goimr'?" asked Angela, finally able to overcome her fear of the snarl.
Hildegard shrugged. "Who knows? Who cares? Just another ridiculous little death squad, I assume. Probably be sending assassins to the Abbey, I don't doubt, like all the others." She smiled, like a saint. "Hope so, really, it keeps the snarls from getting too hungry."
As if to register her own agreement, the snarl lying on the rug cracked her eyes open a bit and yawned. A ghastly great red tongue licked a gruesome great pink maw. Horrible sight, really.
But I had other things to worry about than a mere snarl. "We don't want no part of any Joe business!" I shrilled. "Got enough of that in Prygg! You didn't say nothing about Joe business in your letter!"
Jenny piped up. "I don't understand what this is all about. Who's Joe?"
Everyone stared at her. Then, at Angela, after Angela piped up: "Yeah. Me too. I've heard his name mentioned before. But who is this guy, anyway?"
I was surprised, until I remembered that most people don't know about Joe. Which really isn't surprising, of course, when you consider that Joe is the ultimate heresy and even whispering his name in the wrong place can get you burned at the stake. What's left of you.
The Abbess was frowning. "I declare! What kind of education are they giving children these days?" She planted her hands on the desk in front of her and leaned forward a bit.
"Joe, my dear girl, is the man who invented God. Way back in the ancient times."
She hesitated, pursing her lips. "Well, I suppose I shouldn't call him a 'man,' perhaps. The scholars are in dispute over the matter. Those of them who've managed to avoid the Inquisition, anyway. He was one of the Old Groutch, you know, those ancient cave dwellers in Grotum who were possibly our ancestors. Or possibly not. As I say, the scholars are still wrangling ferociously over the thing. 'Leaky' Sfondrati-Piccolomini claims they were, but Johansen Laebmauntsforscynneweëld insists they were a collateral branch who went extinct with no issue. And there are other theories. A host of them! For instance—"
She broke off, seeing Angela and Jenny's jaws agape.
"But, my dear girls—surely you can't be surprised! Somebody had to invent the Old Geister, after all. Why shouldn't it have been a caveman named Joe? I assure you the theological reasoning is impeccable."
Jenny was almost spluttering. "But—but—He's God."
Hildegard frown deepened. "Of course He's God. The Lord Almighty, and all that. What of it? Somebody still had to invent Him."
She waved her hand, as if brushing aside a fly. "But that's really a minor issue. The big question, of course, is whether God actually destroyed Joe afterward, as the myths always claim." She snorted derisively. "Silly things, myths. No, no, my dear girls. You can be quite sure that Joe will be coming back. Quite soon now, I imagine, especially with that exasperating Zulkeh stirring the pot."
Jenny and Angela were utterly befuddled by now. I wasn't, myself. Just moderately fuddled. But I was determined to get off the subject. The quickest way to perdition I know is to meddle with the Joe business. By now, I trust, the reason is blindingly clear.
"Just exactly what do you require from us?" I demanded brusquely. "And I repeat—we're not doing anything that involves the Joe stuff."
"Well, of course not!" exclaimed Hildegard. "What possible reason would I have to hire a strangler for that? No, no, my dear Ignace. I should have thought the matter was obvious. I need Greyboar's assistance to obtain the score for the Harmony of the Spheres."
Yeah, that's it—her reply to the question, word for word. Didn't make any sense to me, either.
"Come again?" asked Greyboar.
Hildegard frowned. "Strange, really. Your sister's such a smart girl. Well, so be it. We'll just have to do the best we can with the human material available."
She laced her fingers and began speaking, in much the same tone that one speaks to a child. A slow-witted child.
"It's the Harmony of the Spheres, is the problem. Now that Joe's coming back, the Old Geister's on His way out. Pity, really. He was such a promising young Deity, in His early years. But I'm afraid there's no hope for Him now. The Man's—well, He's not really a Man, you know, but since He insists on using the masculine pronoun, He can't very well complain—anyway, He's just gotten hopelessly set in His ways, the past few millennia. Become a complete Pighead, actually, much as I hate to say it."
I was beginning to see why the Ecclesiarchs were miffed with her.
"I've tried to warn Him, needless to say. There's still a chance for a harmonious resolution, if He'd mend His ways and try to set things right before Joe gets back. Joe will be peeved with Him, of course, under the best of circumstances. But I've tried to explain to the Old Geister that Joe isn't the vindictive sort, so if He can at least show that He's made an attempt to get everything back on track there's every reason to believe that Joe will decide to let bygones be bygones. Of course, He'll have to give up all of this Lord Almighty foolishness, but that'll be for the best, anyway—even for Him. Especially for Him, as a matter of fact. Megalomania has always been the worst occupational hazard for a Supreme Deity. If He had the sense of a Pigeon, He'd see it right off, but I'm afraid He's gotten so swell-headed over the ages that—"
"Hold it! Hold it! Hold it!" I had visions of the Inquisition's chambers dancing in my head. Vivid, vivid, vivid images. "I said no Joe business, lady! And what do you do, right off? You go into it like the wizard Zulkeh wouldn't dream of on his worst days!"
"In addition to which," added Greyboar, "you're nuttier than a fruitcake."
The Abbess stared at him. I got the impression that she was puzzled by his words, rather than offended.
"What on earth do you mean, young man—'nuttier than a fruitcake'?"
Greyboar snorted. "What do I mean? All this ridiculous chatter about how you've been trying to warn the Old Geister about Joe, that's what. I mean, look, your Abbess—"
"Hildegard, please! I detest formality."
"—Hildegard, then. Sure and I've heard of people claiming they talk with God, but they're either weird mystics squatting on a mountain somewhere or they're fruitcakes chained up in an asylum."
"Well, of course!" exclaimed Hildegard. "No sane person would try to talk with the Old Geister. It's impossible—and don't believe anything those silly mystics tell you, either. You should be able to talk to Him, of course, but the Man's an absolute Fanatic about following proper channels. Insists that you have to correspond with Him through the post. I don't mind so much myself—I've always rather enjoyed writing letters, actually. But it makes it so difficult for the poor people. It's hard for them to write to Him, you know, suffering from illiteracy the way they do. And then, even when they do manage to block out a simple note, the Old Geister will refuse to read it, like as not. I hate to say it, but the truth is He's a fearsome Snob. Won't even look at a letter unless it's written in a fine hand, and then He insists the text has to be in the ancient cipher of the Order of the Knights Rampant. It's such a nuisance! I know the cipher, of course, but there aren't more than a handful of people in the world who do—outside of the Godferrets, naturally—and, besides, even for someone who knows it, the cipher is an absolutely beastly script, absolutely—"
"No Joe business, I said!" I starting hopping up and down with agitation. Then stopped as soon as the snarl raised her head and gave me a look I didn't much care for. So I calmed down a little, and continued:
"Look, Abb—Hildegard, I'll say it again for the last time: no Joe business. Especially, I don't want to hear about the Godferrets. Heard enough about them back in Prygg. If it scared the wizard stiff, it's nothing Greyboar and I want anything to do with, that's for sure."
Hildegard was still frowning. "But, my dear little man," she said, "I was simply responding to Greyboar's remark about my alleged lunacy."
"Hildegard," said Greyboar, "I wasn't saying you were a madwoman because I thought you said you were talking to God. I don't care how you claim to do it—through the Royal Mail or carrier pigeon. You're nuts."
She drew herself up stiffly. "Well!" she exclaimed. "I can certainly understand now why Gwendolyn isn't pleased with you. A stupid jackass, just as she said!" She sniffed. "Thinks the world isn't any bigger than the bag of oats stuck on his nose."
She rose from the desk and walked over to the alcove. She turned and crooked a finger.
"Come hither, then, man-who-thinks-like-a-jackass. Examine the oats for yourself."
I swear, the woman was just too weird to get angry with. Greyboar and I looked at each other, shrugged, and went over to the alcove.