"This is really why Greyboar and I had to come along on this damn-fool expedition, isn't it?" I glared at Hrundig; then, realizing the futility of that enterprise, at Shelyid. "You needed us to get through that thing."
Shelyid shook his head vehemently. "Oh no, Ignace! This is just one of the reasons. We also needed you on account of the Even Worse Hands which are lurking beyond the Evil Horizon."
The dwarf peered at me dubiously. "I thought you were a student of the wise man," he complained. "Didn't you even hear his famous saying that you shouldn't try to think of the worst thing that could happen because—"
"It's bound to be worse," Hrundig chuckled. He clapped me on the shoulder. "Ignace knows that one. I'm sure he does!"
I started to say something sarcastic, but Jenny and Angela distracted my attention. They charged up to Zulkeh and started arguing with him.
"We're going too! We're going too!" they shouted in unison.
The wizard scowled. "Nonsense! Utter nonsense!"
They kept hollering. In fact, they were hopping up and down in front of Zulkeh, shaking their little fists in his face.
"Are too! Are too!"
Zulkeh smote the floor of the cavern with his staff. "A Distinction!" he cried. "I demand a Distinction! The Sinners from the Wicked! The Repentant from the Unrueful!"
The vast formless form seemed to quiver a bit. A sound like a huge, distant snicker emerged from the thing. Zulkeh smote the cavern floor again, swiveling his head and glaring furiously at the Evil Horizon.
"What means this insolence?" he demanded. " 'Tis an outrage!" A moment later he was striding right up to the monstrosity, waving his staff about. The sheer, pure evil emanating from it didn't seem to faze the mage a bit.
"Mock me, will you?" he demanded. Again, he smote the cavern floor with his staff. "So be it! Wretched ultimate evil! Base cur of low degree!"
He turned his head and glared at the dwarf. "Shelyid! Fetch me the Codex of Evaporation!"
"Right away, professor!" The dwarf started unlacing the top of the giant sack. Ready at an instant—it was obvious to all—to climb into its cavernous interior and retrieve whatever object the mage was demanding.
Zulkeh, meanwhile, was back to shaking his staff at the form of ultimate evil. I swear—I saw it, I tell you—he even took a two-handed swipe at the thing.
"Defy me in my quest, will you?" he shrilled. "We shall see about that, pitiful wretch! Once I begin my intonation of the dread formulae of Hawking Sfondrati-Piccolomini—"
The Evil Horizon suddenly blanched. Weird, that—seeing a black hole turn white as a ghost, for just a nanosecond. But it did. Word of honor.
"Aye, indeed!" spoke Zulkeh. "Indeed! By the first verse, ye shall begin to wither. By the second—"
The Evil Horizon emitted another sound. Like a huge, distant yelp. An instant later, it made a sound something like a belch. Out popped a wizened old demon-sort-of-thing, clutching a ledger and a quill pen.
"Easy, easy!" squealed the demon-sort-of-thing. "Easy, now! We can straighten all this out in a moment!"
There was another belching sound, and a table came flying out. Along with a stool. Another belch, and out came four more demon-sorts-of-things, even more wizened than the first.
The first demon-sort-of-thing hastily arranged the table and stool and set itself up behind it, ledger open and quill pen in taloned hand. The other four ranged themselves in a row off to one side.
"Now, then," it said. "What seems to be the difficulty?"
The mage stepped forward to the table. "We demand passage through the Evil Horizon—with a guarantee of safe return."
"I see," muttered the demon-sort-of-thing. It poised the pen over the ledger, preparing to write. "And you are?"
"Zulkeh of Goimr, phy—"
He didn't even have a chance to finish before the little gaggle of other demon-sorts-of-things started chanting in unison.
"Petition denied! Petition denied!"
The demon-sort-of-thing at the table finished scratching Zulkeh's name into the ledger and then immediately scratched a line through it. "Absurd," it muttered. "Even if the saints hadn't spoken, I would have denied the petition myself."
The "saints"? I stared at the four demon-sorts-of-things. And noticed, for the first time, that a faint halo flickered over the head of each one. Very faint halos, mind you—and sickly-looking, to boot. But halos, no doubt about it.
My confusion must have shown on my face. Wittgenstein hissed at me: "No private parts, dummy. That's how you can tell fallen angels from real devils."
His words made me realize why Hildegard had been so reticent on the matter. I stooped and peered under the table, examining the private parts of the demon-sort-of-thing sitting there. Sure enough. He didn't have any private parts either.
"You aren't a demon-sort-of-thing," I complained. "You're a fallen angel."
The fallen angel got a sour look on its face. "Bah!" oathed Zulkeh. "Say better: a plummeted angel. Or, best of all: a diver into the ultimate deeps."
He cocked his head so far over I thought his pointed wizard's hat would fall off. Then, after finishing his examination of the fallen angel, pronounced: "Harry, if I am not mistaken. The one mentioned in the Book of Tribulations, verse seventeen. You recall, Ignace? The one who told the Old Geister—"
"That's not how it happened!" groused the fallen angel. "And I'm not Harry, anyway. He works midnight shift. I'm Jack."
"Which one?" demanded the mage. "The Jack mentioned in Exasperations II? Or the Jack—"
"Never mind!" snapped the fallen angel. "Just Jack!"
I suspected he was probably the one in Exasperations II, judging from the exasperated way he scratched two more lines through Zulkeh's name. "Petition denied! And don't bother protesting, mage! Your reputation is a byword and a hissing. You're a sinner, sure, but you've no intentions at all of giving up your wicked quest. You know it as well as I do."
"Certainly not!" exclaimed Zulkeh. "The needs of science—"
"Next!" shrilled Jack-the-fallen-angel. "Move aside, Zulkeh! You're blocking the line."
Zulkeh might have kept arguing, but Gwendolyn was next and she just picked him up under the armpits and set him off to one side, as easily as a normal woman would have moved a toddler.
"I'm Gwendolyn Greyboar," she announced, "and I'm also requesting—"
"Petition denied! Petition denied!" chorused the saints.
Jack must have been really exasperated now, because by the time he finished writing in Gwendolyn's name and crossing it off there was nothing left in the ledger but a huge blob of ink.
"Is this some kind of joke?" he shrilled petulantly. "The second-most-notorious revolutionist in Grotum claiming she's mending her wicked ways and giving up all riotous agitation 'gainst lawful authority?"
"I said no such thing," growled Gwendolyn. "But I still want—"
"Step aside! Step aside!"
Well, nobody except Greyboar could have moved Gwendolyn aside by picking her up, and Greyboar—the last faint trace of sanity, here—was still loitering in the rear of the line with me and Hrundig.
Then my heart seized, because Jenny and Angela were pushing their way past Gwendolyn eagerly.
"Us! Us!" they cried. "Jenny and Angela! We wanna go too!"
Jack-the-fallen-angel squinted at them suspiciously. Then, slowly wrote their names into the ledger and swiveled his head to look at the line of saints. The saints, for their part, were studying Angela and Jenny intently.
My heart was frozen, I swear it was. Not beating at all. Then—
"Petition denied! Petition denied!"
I could breathe again. Whatever else happened, my girls weren't going into that—that thing.
"Why?" demanded Jenny. "Yeah—why?" echoed Angela. In a rush, together: "We swear to mend our wicked ways, honest!"
Jack sneered. "So what? The ways aren't wicked enough in the first place."
"Are too!" shrieked Jenny. "We're dykes and everything!" Angela cocked her head and gave me the eye. "Even worse than that," she snickered. "Fallen dykes."
Jack's sneer never even wavered. "Big deal. You think the Lord Almighty loses sleep over stuff like that?"
Jenny and Angela's mouths dropped. "We've been denounced by priests and monks, even," whined Angela. "Lots of times," added Jenny.
Jack rolled his eyes and cast a sour look at the saints. The saints started cackling. Weird sound, they made, as dried up and shriveled-looking as they were.
"Priests and monks," giggled one. "Leave it to a bunch of sophomores!"
"Gotta make allowances," wheezed the one next to him. "Bigotry 101 and Introductory Prejudice really doesn't prepare you for postgraduate work."
Jack looked bored. "Make an official Sorting, would you? I'd like to get to lunch before they close the cafeteria."
"Insufficient sin! Insufficient sin!" intoned the saints. Before they'd even finished, Jack had scratched out their names. "Denied," he droned. "Next."
Jenny and Angela stumbled away, looking both shocked and upset. They stared at me, faces pale. I fell in love with them all over again, and knew it was forever and ever. Which, given my prospects at the moment, wasn't too far off.
Then Greyboar nudged me and I took a breath. Then another one.
There was still a last gasp. I nudged Magrit, standing at my side. "How's about you?"
She snorted. "Me? I ain't getting anywhere near that thing. This is as far as I go, Ignace. That was my deal with Gwendolyn."
"And I'm with her, runt," hissed Wittgenstein.
I sighed and started forward. But Hrundig held me back.
"Wait, Ignace. Let me go first. I may need a bit of help here."
I was willing enough. Hrundig stepped up to the table and gave his name. Jack scribbled it in and turned, once again, to the saints.
This time, the saints spent more than a second or two pondering the matter. A full minute, maybe. Before:
"Petition denied! Petition denied!" They didn't wait for Hrundig to demand an explanation before giving it: "Excessive prior atonement! Preexisting condition of soul-searching and mortification!"
Hrundig must have been expecting it, though, judging by the cold little smile on his face. And I guess he must have gotten some advance coaching from Zulkeh, because he immediately demanded the right to give what he called "non-extenuating circumstances."
Now Jack got a really sour look on his face. But apparently Hrundig was following the red tape properly, because the fallen angel removed the pen from the ledger and muttered: "Okay. Let's hear it."
Hrundig squared his shoulders, clasped his hands behind his back, and started bellowing:
"My name is Hrundig Fjalkerson
And I am accounted the fiercest berserk
Of my district. One day I met
Wart Giddle at the river crossing
And he refused to give me passage
So I took out my axe and killed him.
Then his brother Thord Herjolfson
Who is the son of Herjolf Kollson
Who was the brother of Hallgerd who
Was married to Hoskuld the Fat
Took umbrage. He had many thralls and
Neighbors who owned lots of pigs."
"And horses!" I shouted. "Don't forget the horses! And the sheep!"
"And lots of horses and sheep too.
One horse was called Red-foot Swiftsure
And she was . . ."
Well, this went on for some time, since Hrundig took care to specify by name all the offspring he sired on Fat Hoskuld's mares and ewes and sows until the saints started wailing that Hrundig was stalling and so Hrundig veered back on to his other sins:
"So I smote Fat Hoskuld in the eyeball
With my spear which got stuck in the socket
So I drew my sword and smashed Hoskuld's
Two nephews in the head but the sword
Bent over the head of the second nephew
Who was called Ingemar the Dimwitted
Before I bent my sword over his head.
Afterwards he was called Ingemar the
Dimmerwitted. But because my sword bent,
Fat Hoskuld's nephews went at me with
Their axes and I was forced to duck and dodge
While I took a rock and hammered the sword
As straight as I could while I was ducking
And dodging. Then I bent it again over Gunnar
The Low-Browed who was called Gunnar
The No-Browed afterward. But my sword bent again
And now Gunnar's uncle Ulf the Unwashed came at me
So I dropped the sword and used my own axe—"
"Which one?" I demanded. "You've got to say which one, Hrundig!"
"That is true. I mean the axe which I got
From Golf the Fearless when I met him at a
River crossing and he would not let me pass
So I struck him with my spear and took his
Axe after he died after I pushed his head
Under water after my spear bent.
I took the same axe and smote Golf's
Brother Ragnar at another river crossing
When Ragnar wanted weregild but I would
Not pay it. Instead I cut off his leg with the
Axe but Ragnar hopped back to his horse
And took up his own axe and came at me but I
Cut off his other leg but Ragnar crawled back
To his horse and took his spear and crawled
Back so I hit his head but the axe bent
Even though his head bent also. So I took my
Own spear and spilled Ragnar's guts but he
Writhed to his horse and took up his mace and
Hauled himself back along his own guts and I
Cut off his arm but he wriggled back to his
Horse and took up his dagger in his teeth
And squirmed like an eel back toward me but I
Broke all his teeth with my spear but the
Spear bent when he had two molars left.
So Ragnar chewed on my boot but I took up my
Other boot and struck him on the head again
Many times until his head bent further
But so did my boot but then he—"
"Enough! Enough!" shrieked the saints. "Petition granted! Petition granted!"
Hrundig stepped aside. "Does it every time," he smirked, as he sauntered past me.
I couldn't stall any longer. I gave Gwendolyn a glance. She was staring at me, her dark face almost pale. Her lips trembled, as if she were on the verge of whispering something.
She wouldn't, of course. Not Gwendolyn. But I knew what she wanted to say. Please, Ignace. Do it for me.
Sighing, I took Greyboar by the elbow and stepped up to the table with him.
"He's Greyboar the strangler," I muttered, "and I'm—"
But Jack was already scribbling my name into the ledger right after Greyboar's. "Piece of cake, this one!" he cried. "Can still make it to lunch!"
He swiveled his head. The saints were squinting at us. Jack got a sour look on his face. Very sour.
"Oh, come on," he whined. "What more do you want? A professional serial killer and his accomplice ain't good enough for you?"
The saints sniffed. "Possible duplicity," muttered one. "Not about the sins, of course," added another, "but about the mending of wicked ways."
A moment later they started that damned intoning business again: "Need insurance! Need insurance!"
Jack sighed and rubbed his face. "All right," he grumbled, swiveling his head back toward the Evil Horizon. "Send out a bonding agent!"
Another belch, and out came a rotund little creature looking not so much like a fallen angel as one who'd never risen in the first place. The butterball rolled to his talons and trotted forward cheerfully.
"Only take a minute!" he cried. "Relax, Jack—you can still make lunch. Don't want to miss it, either. Chipped virgin on toast, today."
Once he was standing in front of Greyboar and me, the newcomer assumed as dignified a stance as a beachball-shaped demon-sort-of-thing can.
"I'm Fred, by the way. You can read all about me in Logarithms II, Verse Three. The business about not eating armadillos with cranberry sauce. Now. Repeat after me: 'I solemnly swear . . .' "
This nonsense went on for some time, while Greyboar and I swore to abandon all evil and wickedness and devote our remaining days to righting wrongs and blather blather blather.
And still the saints weren't satisfied.
"New profession!" they intoned. "New profession! Need new professional ethics! Only thing can be trusted!"
"Quite right!" agreed Fred. "What'll it be, gents? Professional Flagellants? Career Whipping Boys? Mercenary Village Idiots? Or—" Here, a great sneer rippled his face. "Professional Heroes?"
I gagged. What a choice!
But Greyboar didn't hesitate. "Hero," he growled.
"Third, Second, First Class—or Excelsior?" demanded Fred.
My agent's instincts did us in, there. Because—not understanding the new rules—I immediately piped: "Excelsior! Greyboar's the best!"
The saints and fallen angels snickered. I got a sinking feeling in my stomach.
"Good move, Ignace," hissed Magrit from somewhere behind me. "Third Class only has to tackle stuff like local bullies."
"And you even get to charge a fee," cackled Wittgenstein. "Just a token, of course, but it beats the rules for Professional Hero, Excelsior, which are—"
I didn't hear the rest, though, because Jack was already gleefully stamping our names with some kind of official-looking seal and Greyboar was hauling me toward the Evil Horizon.
"Let's go," he said. "May as well get it over with."
"What about the Cat?" I whined. "She hasn't had her turn yet."
Greyboar started running toward the Evil Horizon. For all practical purposes, he was carrying me in one hand. I could see Hrundig pounding after us. Along the way, Gwendolyn tossed him a bag holding something lumpy-looking.
"That's why I'm in a hurry!" he snapped. "She already went through."
I must have been gaping. Greyboar chuckled. "What? Rules? You know anything can keep the Cat out if she feels like going through?"
The Evil Horizon was looming over us. I could feel the tidal pull in my soul. And if you don't think that's a weird and scary feeling, think again.
"I just want to get there before she gets herself hurt," he muttered.
The Horizon was upon us! I was being torn in half! (Spiritually speaking.) Greyboar picked me up and we went through in a leap.