A moment later the Trio filed into the room. It was them all
right, in the flesh. Erlic the Weasel, McDoul, and Geronimo Jerry—that's what everybody called him, anyway, that or just "G.J." He had some fancy official moniker which ran on about three sentences, full of "de" thises and "y" thats; claimed to be descended from a long line of Grenadine landholders. But nobody believed that story, not even G.J. himself.
They were looking a mite apprehensive. I could tell—the twitchy feet alone gave them away. Not to mention the sidelong glances at the door, oh, maybe eight times a second, like they were sizing up the escape route. Fat lot of good it'd do them! Well, McDoul could have probably outrun Greyboar, he could scurry faster than any hunchback I ever saw. And Erlic might have had a chance on the flat, if he could avoid tripping over his potbelly. But Geronimo Jerry couldn't have escaped a pack of wild turtles. The man was built like a two-legged pumpkin.
And, of course, they were bowing and scraping and tugging their forelocks.
"Quite th'onor, this, y'Gripship sir," babbled the Weasel, "bein' admitted t'ye presence 'n all."
"Aye!" and "aye!" came from McDoul and G.J.
"Cut it out!" snapped Greyboar. "What am I? Some snooty count you're fawning all over so's you can figure out the quickest way to get to his purse?"
Erlic—he was more or less the leader of the gang, emphasis on the less—cleared his throat and said:
"N'doubt, n'doubt. Aye an' I've long admired y'philosophic acumenation, y'Squeezeness—Greyboar, I mean t'say!—idna 'at true, lads? 'Aven't I—th'million times at th'least!—spoke'd like th'true dev'tee of th'uncanny intelligence of y'Lord 'o th'Larynx? 'Aven't I? 'N now y'can ken for y'selfes the—"
"CUT IT OUT!" roared Greyboar.
It was a great act, really. Best thieves in the Flankn, the Trio, there was no doubt about it. The most craven lackeys in the world's grandest throne rooms couldn't hold a candle to them when it came to lickspittling and kowtowing. Big part of the reason for their success. There was many the fine gentleman been found in an alley, his throat cut and his purse gone, with that unmistakable look of utter astonishment on his face that told you the Trio did the job.
The Weasel cleared his throat again.
"Well, it's like this, Greyboar. We just got out o' th'Pile and natural we right off headed down to th'Trough fer a brew, when what'd ye know but what Leuwen explained t'us as to what ye was inquirin' as t'our whereabouts, an' so—" He cleared his throat again. "—an' so we's consulted 'mongst ourselfes an' decided as to what would prob'bly be best t'come see you right off, rather then wait an' all until y'found us on y'own an' all." Another throat clearing. "What wit' y'blood in y'eye."
And then, of course, they fell to quarreling. The Weasel and McDoul swore on the graves of the mothers they never knew that it had all been Geronimo Jerry's idea to claim Greyboar as his cousin so that the porkers in the Pile would pay back the money G.J. lent to them at his normal usurious rates. Geronimo Jerry swore on the graves of a long line of fictitious Grenadine landholders—hidalgos one and all, to hear him say it—that he'd been talked into by the other two on account of their insatiable lust for the little finer things of life what make a long stay in the dungeon tolerable and which can only be gotten from bribing guards and how are you supposed to bribe guards in the first place when you're broke and so what better way to do it but lend them money at 200% the weekly interest—don't ask me where they got the seed money, I couldn't follow it—and then of course the problem is getting the great surly sadistic brutes to pay back the money and how else to do it but claim the world's greatest strangler as your cousin what dotes on you and it was all McDoul's idea in the first place. That was a nice little touch, that last twist, because before you knew it the lineup was shifting and now it was Erlic admitting as to how, well, yes, and it had been McDoul who'd thought it up first and Erlic and G.J. had just gone along because sure and McDoul swore as he'd talked it all over with Greyboar before they'd gotten pitched into the Pile. And then—your great chancellors and ministers haven't got a thing on the Trio when it comes to treacherous alliances and realpolitik—the wind started veering again when McDoul demanded as to how he could have spoken to Greyboar and gotten permission ahead of time when everybody knew Greyboar had been in Prygg hiding out from the porkers and wasn't it actually—this to Geronimo Jerry—Erlic who'd claimed he'd gotten a letter from the great strangler in Prygg graciously giving his nod to the impersonation and of course he and G.J. had taken the Weasel's word for it since wasn't it true that Erlic always handled the Trio's correspondence on account of McDoul and G.J. were wretched orphans what had never learned to read and write—a bald-faced lie, that; any one of the Trio can distinguish in the blink of an eye between the denominations of every known currency in the world—being as they had been forced to work in the sweatshops since they was tots. And then—
Well, I was enjoying the whole thing, I love to watch masters of a trade at their work, but Greyboar was in one of his impatient moods so he cut it short. He could always cut through long-winded argumentation, Greyboar. Three quick squeezes and the Trio fell as silent as the tomb.
"I don't care about you claiming to be my cousin," he grumbled, after he resumed his seat. "I would have let it go, anyway." He chuckled. "Kind of amused me, actually, cozzening the porkers like that."
Then he gave them a sour look, and said: "I hate to admit it, but you three worthless hounds happen to be in my good graces at the moment. On account of how I heard you fought to the last gasp when the Guard came to arrest the Cat."
"Ye wunnerful Cat!" hacked Erlic.
"Natural we did'r best to defen' th'Lady o' the Flankn," choked McDoul.
"Th'Light o' Sfinctria," gasped Geronimo Jerry.
"Speakin' o' last gasps an' all," said Erlic, massaging his throat, "ye wouldna 'appen t'ave th'odd pot o' ale lyin' about now, would ye? Thirsty work, bein' throttled an' all."
Jenny went to get some ale, and soon enough the Trio were sitting about on the floor drinking their pots and cheerful as could be. Not surprising, this was one of the few times they'd ever enjoyed Greyboar's good graces.
"How did you get out of the Pile, anyway?" I asked. "For that matter, how'd you get out the time before that?"
The Trio grinned in unison.
"We informers," Erlic announced proudly.
"On th'highest levels, no less," added McDoul.
"Report direct to th'Queen's Inspector General, we do," said G.J.
"An' to the Cruds!" cried Erlic. He was positively beaming.
"Been interviewed by th'Angel Jimmy Jesus hisself," boasted McDoul.
"Come all th'way from the occupation in Prygg, 'e did," bragged G.J., "just t'question us personal."
Well, I believe I'll just summarize the story. Always enjoyed the Trio's dialogue myself, but I admit it gets a tad difficult for the uninitiated to follow. And I'll say it now, before I even begin, that you have to hand it to the Trio—nobody else could have pulled this one off.
They'd been in the Pile for some crime or other. I don't remember the details, but it must have been a doozy because Jeffreys had sentenced them to the lowest dungeons. Then, as it turned out, the artist Benvenuti wound up in the very same cell, after he got convicted of defrauding the Church.
Greyboar interrupted them at that point, wanting to make sure they were talking about the same Benvenuti. But it only took the Trio a minute to satisfy him. It was Benny all right. The description was perfect.
(Weird coincidence, I thought at the time. Later, in light of ensuing events, I realized that it was the inexorable workings of fate. Shit happening, like it always does.)
Getting back to the Trio's tale, what did you know but what the great lawyer Jauncey Utterwert Muroidea IV was the next one pitched into the cell with them. He'd somehow fallen out of momentary favor with the Queen, which is not hard to do. Greyboar and I recognized the name, of course, since Muroidea was one of the scummiest lawyers of Sfinctria (i.e., the Scum of Scum). Known as "the bonestripper" in the slums of the city, Muroidea. You could satisfy your regular lawyer with a pound of flesh nearest the heart, but not Muroidea—he always got the full measure.
Muroidea didn't survive but a few minutes in the cell. The Trio would have slit his throat on general principles anyway, but beyond that—well, no need to go into the grisly details. Let's just say that they saw to it that there were no remains of Muroidea and leave it at that.
Then, no sooner had they disposed of Muroidea when who should pop up into their cell, out of a tunnel he'd dug from below, but the famous Underground Artist of New Sfinctr, Vincent van Goph? The great painter sketched a triptych on the walls of their cell. Then, just as he'd finished, the porkers came into the cell looking for Muroidea, who had just been pardoned by the Queen and named her new Royal Adjudicator. (The Queen's favor is fickle—you can fall into it as fast as you can out.)
Vincent van Goph made his escape down the tunnel, along with the artist Benvenuti, but the Trio hadn't managed it because G.J. had gotten stuck in the hole. Again, Greyboar interrupted, to make sure that Benvenuti had actually made his escape. The Trio assured us that he had. But . . .
Being lost in the labyrinth of tunnels beneath the dungeons of New Sfinctr didn't really qualify as much of an "escape." The tales about those tunnels were enough to terrify a demon. But that was the last they'd seen of Benny. Disappearing down the hole.
So there they were—caught red-handed in an escape attempt right after vanishing a lawyer who'd just been appointed the Queen's Royal Adjudicator. A dark moment, you'd think, in the life of desperate criminals.
Not them. Sure, and your average felons would have been for the high jump. But they were always quick-witted, the Trio.
So right away, after being hauled before the Queen's Inspector General, they started in spinning a tale of how they had been cowering in the cell, listening to Muroidea and that other beast, what's-his-name, planning to cut their throats before the lawyer and his cohort made good their escape so that the Trio wouldn't be able to warn the Queen of the coming attempt on her life.
What coming attempt on her life? Why, the one Muroidea boasted about. Rubbing his hands with glee, he was, cackling at the thought of the poor Queen sprawled on the throne, her life's blood pouring out of a hundred wounds. A horrible plot! Masterminded, of course, by the Dark Duke.
What Dark Duke? Muroidea's boss, the archvillain of the conspiracy. Well, no, the Trio didn't know exactly who it was, but it was plain as day from listening to Muroidea talking with that other vicious assassin, what's-his-name, that the Dark Duke had to be one of the great nobles of Sfinctria. The Trio would have figured that out anyway, because nobody else but a great nobleman could afford to have a thousand assassins on his payroll.
What thousand assassins? Why, the ones Muroidea told the other scoundrel, what's-his-name, that the Dark Duke had gotten infiltrated into every level of the Sfinctrian government. Hundreds of 'em in the Praetorian Guard alone.
Every level of the Queen's government? Naturally, on account of how this Muroidea and his fellow cabalist—what's-his-name—were the trickiest plotters you ever ran into. Why, hadn't Muroidea even fooled the Queen herself into appointing him the Royal Adjudicator? Of course, when he heard the porkers coming into the cell, natural and he'd had to take it on the lam, even forgetting to slit the Trio's throats, on account of how he must have figured the Queen's men were on to him and of course he couldn't afford to be caught and tortured where he might spill his guts because didn't Muroidea know every detail of the whole plot, even including the identity of the Dark Duke's mole in the highest levels of Ozar's greatest espionage agency, the Commission to Repel Unbridled Disruption?
And, of course, that was the masterstroke. Because as soon as the Crud adviser who was sitting in on the Trio's interrogation heard that, he screeched like a castrated pig and demanded that the Trio be held for questioning by the Angel Jimmy Jesus himself, the Director of the Cruds. And, sure enough, as soon as he got the news the Angel raced in to interview the Trio.
From then on, of course, they were in the gravy. The Angel Jimmy Jesus was undoubtedly the world's champion paranoid, and he'd been saying for years that the Cruds had been infiltrated by moles, and now—at last!—he had proof. Mind you, nobody in their right mind would have believed the Trio if they'd said the sun rose in the east and set in the west. The porkers tried to tell that to the Angel, but he wasn't having any of it. Then again, nobody had ever accused the Angel Jimmy Jesus of being in his right mind.
So there they were. Released from prison, now informers for the Cruds, hot on the trail of the Dark Duke.
"A master criminal, 'e is, th'Dark Duke," intoned Erlic solemnly.
" 'As 'is treach'rous fingers in ev'ry pie, 'e does," added McDoul piously.
" 'Specially 'mongst lowlifes like what 'angs around y'rotten dives sech as th'Trough," continued Geronimo Jerry, shaking his head sadly, "which, o' course, is what necess'tates us t'spend so much o' our days there, knockin' down one pot 'o ale after 'nuther, which we couldna afford 'cept for th'Cruds is payin' fer it an' all, so's we can ferret out th'treacherous plot of th'Dark Duke."
And that explained, naturally, why they'd been forced—much though it pained them to raise a hand against the Queen's finest—to form the Cat's last guard in the brawl at The Trough. Keep their cover, don't you know? And it worked like a charm. Not only did they get released, but they even got a raise out of the Cruds.