But all that came later. In the immediate aftermath, the Baron's
choke resulted in a completely unexpected hitch. Greyboar's sister Gwendolyn came back to haunt us. In a strange sort of way.
Late in the afternoon of the very next day, while we were at The Trough having a friendly argument over my idea of "life's big questions"—stout or lager—a stranger showed up. The first we knew of him was when Leuwen came over and started muttering and mumbling something incoherent. He was wiping his hands on his rag, too, in that particular way he has whenever he's got something to say to Greyboar that he thinks the big guy won't like.
Silly habit. Greyboar's never been one to blame the messenger, and, even if he were, he certainly wouldn't take his peeve out on a professional Flankn barkeep. Just isn't done. Your imperial-level ambassadors don't hold a candle to Flankn barkeeps when it comes to real diplomatic immunity.
"Stop mumbling," growled Greyboar. "Just spit it out."
"Well, see, it's like this, Greyboar. There's this guy here—he's a stranger. An outlander, actually, damned if he isn't an Ozarine—but he's vouched for by The Roach himself, if you can fathom that. It's the truth! He came here once before, Oscar and the lads brung him, and spent a fair number of hours quaffing ale with The Roach in one of the small private rooms, although The Roach let it be known in the main room right here—in no uncertain terms—that Benny—that's his name, this stranger I'm talking about—was a friend of his and not to be meddled with. If you know what I mean."
(What it means, if you're not familiar with the personage involved, is that The Roach passed the word in The Trough—the Flankn's combined heart and central nervous system—that if any Flankn cutpurse or mugger so much as looked cross-eyed at this Benny fellow, well, they'd have The Roach to deal with. And The Boots. Among the lowlife of New Sfinctr, that's as good as gold. Quite a bit better, actually. Even gold wears out, eventually. The Boots and their effects are eternal.)
Leuwen was still droning on and around and about and up and down and sideways, so Greyboar cut him short: "Get to the point."
Again, the frantic wiping of the hands. Then: "Well, you see, actually, the point is—he wants to talk to you."
Greyboar lifted his eyebrows. "So? Send him over, then."
Some few moments later, Leuwen was wending his way back through the crowded taproom with a stranger in tow. The man was carrying a cloth sack filled with something or other in one hand, and an odd-looking object of some sort in the other. The thing was flat, almost like a board, and about four feet wide by three feet tall. Couldn't figure out what it was.
As he drew near, the man subjected us to a very close scrutiny. Well, subjected Greyboar, I should say. He didn't give me but a glance. In and of itself, that wasn't unusual. Strangers often stared at Greyboar when they first met him, even if they didn't know who he was. If they did, the stare became an ogle.
But there was something odd about this fellow's stare. There was no fear in it, not even apprehension. Instead, there seemed to be some kind of weird recognition. Almost as if he were seeing a ghost, or something.
But I didn't spend much time trying to figure out what the stranger was thinking. I was much too busy wallowing in an immediate, overwhelming, intense, detestation of him.
I hate that man, was the overriding thought in my mind. May he contract leprosy. May he stumble and disfigure himself. May he suffer from an incurable deadly disease which strikes him down before he takes another step. May a meteorite plunge through the roof and turn him into a crater. May—
And so on, and so forth.
No man in the world has any right to be that handsome.
It was so disgusting. Mind you, I'm not normally given to envy over such things. There's no need for it. Your normal "handsome man" is an object of ridicule. Most of them are pretty-boy types, which the girls may swoon over but which any solid male bellied up to a bar can instantly dismiss with a sneer. "Cream puff. Break him like a twig."
Alas. I doubted that any man in The Trough could have broken this fellow, other than Greyboar and maybe a couple of your finest muggers. He wasn't just impossibly handsome, he was also—brace yourself for another sample of life's fundamental unfairness—tall, broad-shouldered, lean-hipped, flat-bellied, the whole works. His stride had a light, pantherish quality to it, which went quite oddly with the soulful sadness in his gray eyes. And his hands! Oh, the injustice of it all! Women would gaze on those finely-shaped, long-fingered, well-manicured objects with fascinated curiosity, and decide he was undoubtedly a charming fellow. Men would examine the size of the sinewy things, note how well they undoubtedly wrapped themselves around the hilt of the sword scabbarded to his waist, and decide likewise.
The sword, naturally, was not only a finely-made rapier with a truly splendid hilt and basket, it was also obviously well used.
By the time Leuwen brought the wretch to our table I had damned him to a thousand deaths. Silently, of course. Alas, Greyboar didn't share a natural male reaction to such things. And, fact is, should the big guy have chosen not to back me up in a little contretemps—he'd been known to desert me in my hour of need—things might have gotten a little tricky if the stranger took offense at my conduct.
True, the man was obviously an Ozarine. The dark complexion and the typical Ozarine cast to his features gave him away even before he opened his mouth and exhibited that grotesque Ozarine accent. But I was not one of those dolts who thought all Ozarines were overcivilized fops. Overcivilized fops do not, as a rule, conquer half the world.
Greyboar gazed up at the fellow and spoke.
"May I be of assistance, sirrah?" Yeah, just like that. Polite as can be.
The stranger bowed—I hated that bow; courteous as you could ask for, without a trace of foppery; there's no justice—and replied: "Indeed, sirrah, such is my very hope." He gestured to an unoccupied chair at our table. "May I?"
I scowled, but Greyboar immediately nodded his permission. After the man sat down, he said: "Allow me to introduce myself, gentlemen. I am an artist. My name is Benvenuti Sfondrati-Piccolomini. If I am not mistaken, I believe I have the honor of addressing the famous professional strangler Greyboar and his agent"—here he nodded politely at me and shrugged apologetically—"whose name, alas, is not known to me."
Naturally, I started to deny everything, but Greyboar cut me off. "His name's Ignace. And I'm Greyboar."
Since there was now no hope of claiming to be misrecognized, I decided to brush the fellow off.
"What d'you want?" I demanded, in my best brush-off tone. "We're busy."
Alas, the fellow took no offense. Instead, to my surprise, he beamed cheerfully. No simpering foppish smile, either. One of those manly-type grins. Naturally, his teeth were blindingly white. Naturally, the debonair dark mustache set them off perfectly.
"Perhaps you can help me with a problem." He reached back and lifted the strange object he'd been carrying. He turned it toward us. Now, finally, I recognized the thing. Artist, he'd said. Sure enough, the object was a portrait. A very large portrait. Oil on canvas.
Unfortunately for my amour propre, I was in mid-quaff when he turned the portrait. Seeing it full on, I couldn't stop myself from spewing ale all over the table.
Greyboar, whether from some weird premonition or simply because he has the nervous reactions of iron ore, simply took a long, casual draught of his ale pot. Then, after a satisfied belch, announced:
"Quite a good portrait of the Baron." He wiped foam from his lips. "Excellent, actually—though I'm no connoisseur of the arts."
"Connoyser be damned!" I hissed. I was on my feet like a shot.
"Blackmail!" I pronounced. "Choke him, Greyboar! Burke him, I say! He's a filthy rotten blackmailer!"
Greyboar, alas, responded with nothing more dynamic than a glance in my direction. "Choke him?" he mused. "Blackmail? Whatever are you talking about, Ignace?"
He turned his gaze onto the stranger. "Surely this fine gentleman's no blackmailer," he rumbled. "And if he were, so what? What crime have we committed to fear blackmail?"
The stranger glanced at me and laughed. "Too many for Ignace to count, I venture to say." The quick laugh was followed by a pleasant grin and a casual wave of the hand.
"But you may rest easy, Ignace," he announced. "You may have, but I most surely did not, mistake the emphasis in Greyboar's words. Where you heard 'what crime have we committed,' I heard the important words: 'to fear blackmail.' "
He transferred his cheerful grin to the strangler. "I dare say you're not troubled by blackmailers often. And certainly not for long."
Greyboar cracked his knuckles. Several of the patrons in The Trough flinched and stared up at the ceiling.
"No," he said. "Not often. And not for long."
"Then what d'you want?" I demanded.
Again, he was unfazed by my hostility. He simply responded with his suave smile and said:
"I am in a bit of a predicament, sirrahs, as a result of the recent demise of the Baron be Butin. Some time ago, the Baron commissioned me to do his portrait." He glanced down at the canvas. "As you can see, I had almost finished the work when word came that the Baron had shuffled off this mortal coil."
Comprehension dawned. I sneered. "So you lost the commission? Never got your money?"
He nodded. Again, I shot to my feet like a rocket.
"Extortion!" I pronounced. "Choke him, Greyboar! Burke him, I say! He's a filthy rotten extortionist!"
This time, Greyboar simply chuckled. The stranger frowned.
"Whatever are you talking about, my good Ignace?"
"I'm not your good Ignace! I know what you're up to! You lost out on your commission because Grey—because some unknown desperado choked the Baron, and now you're trying to squeeze the fee out of us!"
The artist's frown deepened. As if he didn't understand what I was saying, which was ridiculous, because it was plain as day—
Greyboar interrupted. "I regret your loss, sirrah, but I'm afraid I don't see what I can do about it. Alas, it's in the nature of my trade that third parties often wind up taking a loss, through no fault of their own." He shrugged. "You just have to be philosophical about it. The way I look at it, for every third party unfairly injured there's another third party unfairly rewarded. Heirs and such, for instance."
For a moment, a steely glint came to the strangler's eyes. "But I'm afraid I can hardly be called upon to make good such losses to third parties. Put me right out of business, that would."
He waved his great hand airily. But the steely glint remained. "And I'm afraid, should such a third party insist, that I would have to—reluctantly, you understand—come to the conclusion which my friend and agent Ignace came to, as is his unfortunate habit, much too precipitously."
Very steely glint. What people call The Stare, in fact. "Extortion."
I was astonished. This Benvenuti fellow was one of the very, very, very few men I'd ever met who didn't seem in the slightest bit intimidated by The Stare.
He actually laughed! A real, cheerful, happy-go-lucky type of laugh, too. Not the least little quaver or tremor in the thing.
"You misunderstand!" he exclaimed. "I am not seeking financial restitution for my loss. Oh no, not at all. The idea's grotesque! No respectable craftsman such as yourself could be held responsible for unforeseen losses to third parties which arise as the natural result of his enterprise."
The Stare faded, replaced by a puzzled frown.
"But you said—"
The stranger nodded vigorously. "I said that you could be of assistance to me in my predicament. But—my fault entirely—I failed to make clear that the quandary is of an artistic rather than pecuniary nature."
Seeing the puzzled frown still on Greyboar's great looming tor of a brow, the artist explained:
"The Baron's estate, you see, has already made clear that they will not pay me for the portrait under any circumstances. Indeed, they refuse even to compensate me for my expenses. The commission, they say, was undertaken by the Baron, who is now deceased. The estate therefore bears no responsibility for it."
A steely glint came into his own eyes. "At the same time—you seem to have some peculiar legal customs here, if you'll permit an Ozarine to say so—the estate claims that the portrait is part of the estate and must therefore be delivered up. The completed work, mind you. Else I shall be liable before the law for embezzlement and breach of contract."
Greyboar quaffed his ale thoughtfully. "It's true that the laws of New Sfinctr tend to be weighted a bit in favor of the rich."
He eyed the portrait. "So you must legally finish the work, though you will not be paid for it, and—to make matters worse yet—the model himself is no longer available." He shrugged. "But I still don't see the problem. Surely an artist of your skill could—"
Benvenuti cut him off. "Finish it from memory? Oh, to be sure! But that would only satisfy the legal side of my obligation. The problem, I said, was artistic."
The glint in the artist's eye was now pure steel. I took another look at his sword. A very well-used sword, it looked like.
Then, Benvenuti explained what he wanted.
Again, I shot to my feet.
"Insanity!" I pronounced. "Choke him, Greyboar! Burke him, I say! He's a dangerous lunatic!"
Greyboar now began laughing, if the term "laughter" can be applied to a rumbling earthquake. I glowered at him, then at the artist.
"See what you've done?" I demanded.
Greyboar's great paw patted my shoulder. "Relax, Ignace. I'll tell you what. Let's put the question before the ancients."
Good idea. The ancients of The Trough would have no truck with this madness.
"O'Doul! Flannery!" I shouted. Then, I had to shout louder still. By that time of night, the sound of The Trough was like a heavy surf of conversation and camaraderie.
"O'Doul! Flannery! Come over here!" Then, the traditional, hallowed words: "We need sage advice and wise counsel!"
In an instant, the uproar in The Trough died away. A multitude of heads turned our way in sudden interest. Immediately, two of the ancients sitting on their prestigious stools at the Old Bar drained their mugs and upended them ceremoniously. A moment later, they were shuffling their way across the room.
Proper ancients, O'Doul and Flannery. Took the customs seriously.
Before they had even arrived at our table, Leuwen was already there bearing new pots of ale. I winced, but couldn't object. By right and tradition, ancients called upon to make an official Ruling of The Trough were entitled to free ale at the expense of those who called for the Ruling.
As soon as O'Doul and Flannery arrived and took their seats, I laid out the case before them. I was careful to present both sides of the dispute, fairly and dispassionately. Not my natural inclination, that sort of judiciousness, but I had no choice. The worst thing that can happen to you, in a Trough Ruling, is to be charged by the ancients with "special pleading" or, even worse, "lawyering." The penalty for special pleading is official Trough derision. The penalty for lawyering is outright ostracism. Extreme cases are even banned from The Trough for life.
By the time I was finished, a huge crowd had gathered around the table. Outside of a brawl, there's nothing proper Trough-men love more than a Ruling. The comments from the crowd were loud, drunken, and, often enough, obscene. As was hallowed tradition.
My presentation done, I glared at the artist and waved my hand majestically, inviting him to argue his side of the matter. I was hoping, of course, to trick him into special pleading. I figured he'd fall right into the trap, being an Ozarine. To my chagrin, however, he smiled good-naturedly, loudly admired the fairmindedness of my presentation, and simply added a few little details which, though they highlighted certain charms of his argument, could hardly be accused of legalism.
The ancients launched into the case. O'Doul began with the traditional appeal to precedent.
"Reminds me o' the time Hammerhand Hobbs throttled that gov'nor while he was engaged with one of the girls o'r to Madame Henley's House of the Purple Lamp. The lady o' the evening wanted Hammerhand should pay her on account as how he'd robbed her of rightful wages for an unaccomplished labor o' unspeakable debauchery, whilst Hammerhand claimed he owed not a farthing inasmuch as the girl hadn't actually had the chance to perform the act o' grave moral depravity, inasmuch as Hammerhand had burked the old guv'nor before he'd even got it up, though he allowed as how iffen he'd done the terminal deed after the guv'nor 'ad managed—doubtful though that latter event might be in any case, in light o' the guv'nor's advanced years and state of inebriation at the time—that he'd've per'aps owed her recompense—"
"Oh, stop blitherin' on," interrupted Flannery, "the situation's no way comparable at all! The gentleman 'ere's not claimin' Greyboar owes him no money on account o' no financial loss. Indeed, 'e's most graciously conceded right from the start that 'e 'as not the least claim on th'infamous strangler's purse on account o' th'desp'rate villain's recent act o' callous murther 'n' mayhem—"
I shot to my feet.
"What murder? What mayhem?" I demanded. "We haven't admitted to any part of such crime!"
Bad, bad mistake. I knew it as soon as I shut my mouth.
"D'y'ever hear sech foolishness?" demanded O'Doul.
"The two o' yers choked th'Baron," pronounced Flannery. "I know it, 'e knows it, th'gentleman knows it, y'knows it yerself, th'dogs in th' alleys knows it, th'babes in th'woods knows it, th'man in th'moon knows it, th'tooth fairy knows it, th'owl an' the pussycat knows it, th'Queen knows it, th'constables knows it, ever'body knows it."
Alas, my mouth had a mind of its own.
"Can't be proved!" I cried. The next moment, I flinched with dismay.
The whole crowd around the table was hissing me down.
"Prove it?" demanded O'Doul. His face was pale with outrage. "Prove it?"
"What's proof got t'do with it?" demanded Flannery. "What d'ye think this is, y' mangy cur, some kind o' court o' law?" Flannery tottered to his feet, waving his alepot about. "This is not a court o' law, y'little guttersnipe! This 'ere is th'ancient an' venerable Bar o' Troughly Justice!"
"Verges on outright lawyering," muttered O'Doul, glaring at me balefully.
I tried to make myself invisible.
Flannery resumed his seat. By now, another half-dozen ancients had shuffled up and drawn chairs about the table. Within moments all of them were deep into the wrangle. Chapter and verse were hurled about—not from lawbooks, of course, but from the hallowed precedents established by true and proper Trough-men, as codified in the collective memory of the ancients of The Trough. Most of the wrangling, as always, involved the reliability or lack thereof of the respective memories of the various ancients. Mutual derision gave way to an interchange of condemnations which, in turn, soon ceded central stage to a cross-blowing blizzard of personal insults and defamations of character.
In short, it was shaping up as a classic Ruling.
It was going to be a long evening. But, at that point, I was just as glad. By the time the ancients reached a Ruling, they'd hopefully have forgotten my lapses from custom.
Then, to my surprise, Greyboar settled the question. "I'll do it," he announced.
Silence fell upon the table, and over the crowd surrounding us. Disapproving silence. Very disapproving silence.
"The ancients haven't rendered decision yet!" I protested.
"We most certainly 'aven't!" exclaimed these latter worthies, in one voice.
"I don't care," replied Greyboar. "I've decided I agree with Benvenuti and I'll do as he asks."
He rummaged in his pocket. "Of course, I mean no disrespect to the ancients, and I'll naturally make recompense for lost ale." He drew forth a fistful of coins, which, given the size of his fist, made a small treasure. I squawked, but the ancients were mollified. Moments later, the venerables were tottering back to the Old Bar, hollering for ale pots. Only the original three of us were left at the table.
Greyboar cleared his throat. "I do have one condition, Benvenuti."
"Name it."
"Well, it's—it's a bit personal. There's a lady, you see—"
I rolled my eyes. Greyboar stammered into silence.
"You'd like her portrait painted," stated the artist. Greyboar nodded. Shyly, if it can be believed.
"I should be delighted," exclaimed Benvenuti. I started to squawk again, but he silenced me with a gesture. "Fear not, doughty agent! I shall be glad to perform this service entirely free of charge."
Hearing that, I relaxed and took another draught of ale. Then, for the first time since we made his acquaintance, I grinned. He was still too damned handsome, but—you've got to make allowances for a man's faults, when he has that kind of wicked sense of humor. Not to mention that fine appreciation of vengeance.
Benvenuti drained his mug and coughed apologetically. "I'm afraid," he said, "haste is now necessary. The portrait must be turned over to the estate tomorrow."
Leuwen provided us with an alcove on the second floor of The Trough. The Colon Coign, it's called, so named following that famous episode in Trough lore and legend when, in the course of a friendly argument, Ethelbert the Murtherous accused Handsome Jack of being full of shit and Handsome Jack challenged him to prove it and Ethelbert the Murtherous did.
The lighting was terrible, of course, dark as a cellar. But it didn't seem to bother the artist in the least. And I'll say this—Benvenuti was an expert at his trade. It didn't take him but a couple of hours to finish the painting, which was quick work given that he had to redo the Baron's face as well as add the new material. Greyboar was so fascinated that he stayed to the very end, even after his own part as a model was finished. I stayed, too, as it happened.
Really, a wicked sense of humor.
When Benvenuti was finished, Greyboar and I examined the portrait intently.
"You're good," announced Greyboar.
By now, my initial hatred for the man had ebbed considerably, and I was positively awash with simple ill feeling. If there's one thing I admire in a man, it's a proper sense of retribution.
"Good?" I demanded. "He's bloody great! The portrait's perfect! Perfect, I tell you. I know—I was—uh, I have it on good authority."
Benvenuti began packing away his supplies. "Sirrah Greyboar, I thank you for your gracious assistance. I shall need tomorrow morning to render up the portrait to the estate. Beginning in the afternoon, however—or anytime thereafter at your convenience—I shall be available to do a portrait of your lady. I can do it here, if you wish. But, if I might make the suggestion, it would go better at my studio. The lighting is much superior."
Greyboar coughed and looked away. I grinned.
"Bit of a problem, that," I chuckled maliciously. "Fact of the matter is, Greyboar hasn't the faintest idea where the lady is, where she's gone to, nor when—if ever—she'll be back."
Benvenuti raised his hands. "You needn't say more, Ignace. Indeed, please don't. The lady's whereabouts are none of my business."
"They're none of Greyboar's business either," I cackled. "The fact of the matter is, she's not really his lady. Fact is she's—"
Greyboar stared at the wall stonily.
"—pure and simple crazy."
Again, the Ozarine artist was delicacy itself. "As I said, the matter's none of my affair. But I repeat, Sirrah Greyboar: I shall be delighted to paint the lady's portrait, whenever and wherever the occasion should come to pass."
"Don't hold your breath," I giggled.
Greyboar tried to lay The Stare on me. But I'm immune to it.
"Oh, come on, big guy!" I grinned from ear to ear. "You've just got to learn to be philosophical about these things."
In time to come, the portrait became famous. The Baron's estate had conniptions when they saw it, but the fact is that Benvenuti had stayed within the letter of the law. Eventually, the Baron's portrait was sold by the estate to some other mucky-muck—the Duke de Croûte, I think it was; one of the Baron's longtime enemies—who promptly put it up for public display at a grand soiree. Greyboar and I were tempted to go, but, under the circumstances, we decided that would be a bit imprudent. But I did get a chance to see it, eventually, after it was acquired by the New Sfinctr Museum. It's one of their most popular exhibits, in fact.
When I finally saw the portrait again, I was flattered to see that Benvenuti had even given it the title I'd suggested.
The Great Hunter. Sans Beaters. Sans Bearers. Sans Guides. Sans Tout But the Beast.
Beautiful portrait. Perfect likeness of the Baron in his last moments. Perfect, I tell you. The bulging eyeballs, the blowfish cheeks, the purple veins popping out on the forehead—most of all, the hopeless sense of doom gleaming from his eyes. Greyboar was in the portrait, too, of course. At least, his thumbs were.