Well, it's like everything in life—there's an upside, and then
there's a downside.
The upside turned up almost at once. Only a day after Marcel came into the inheritance, Henry secretly told all the remaining now-disowned non-heirs the true manner of Avare's passing. It was an act of complete treachery, of course—not only to Marcel, but to his great-grandfather's last wishes.
"Least I could do to pay back the miserable old tyrant for years of semi-slavery," he told me later, sharing a friendly ale at The Trough. Personally, I suspected there was another motive as well, judging from the fancy clothes which Henry was wearing. I do believe Henry'd been skimming the old man's till for years, I do. Hard to explain the manservant's newfound riches otherwise. I figure he decided Marcel would want a complete audit done of the estate, first thing, and so best to get rid of him quick.
Anyway, before you knew it the strangler and assassin trade in New Sfinctr was booming. I had to turn down all the offers, of course—professional ethics—and leave the business to others. But I wasn't chagrined in the least.
Why? Simple. I really had gotten a big bundle from Avare. Enough to keep Greyboar and me in the pink for quite a while. Long enough, I was certain, for someone else to do away with Marcel. At which point, of course, our obligation to the old Merchant Prince would have been satisfied and we could pick up on all the aftermarket trade. We'd be rich!
Oh, I was such a shrewd fellow. Heh heh.
And, at first, everything seemed to be going according to plan. Even with the second-raters that the disgruntled heirs had to settle for, it didn't take much more than a week before the new Merchant Prince of New Sfinctr was a chokee. Throttled, apparently, by someone hired by Marcel's brother Antoine.
The next day, we were approached by Antoine's cousin Pierre. I rubbed my hands, foreseeing well-nigh-endless work. The Avare extended family was huge.
Heh heh. Shrewd!
Except—
I couldn't believe it! Greyboar went mad!
"I can't see it, Ignace," he insisted. "My interpretation of our obligation to old Avare is that we can't burke any of his heirs. No dice."
The moron! But, since he was clearly prepared to be stubborn, I raced down to the Ethics Committee and got an official ruling. The Ethics Committee, being made up of sane and sensible men, naturally ruled that our obligation extended to Marcel alone.
Didn't matter! Greyboar still refused to budge. He babbled some gobbledygook about the downhill nature of Time's Arrow and the intestines of entropy and God knows what other silly nonsense—all of which led him to the firm opinion that the Ethics Committee was shaving the thing way too close and that since he wasn't bound to actually take on the job by their ruling, he wasn't going to do it.
Ethics, he said. And he wouldn't budge an inch.
It broke my heart. Antoine was gone in four days. Pierre and his five brothers—one after the other, like tenpins—lasted ten days, thanks to the commissions someone got from his sister Amelie. Big commissions, according to rumor.
I spent those two weeks sulking, brooding over ale pots in The Trough. I didn't even pay much attention when that artist Benvenuti showed up one night and spent hours at another table with Greyboar, chatting over this and that. The crazy sister/lover, I imagine. Didn't care!
Which, of course, was sheer stupidity on my part. Because Greyboar then disappeared for a few days and I was too disgruntled to wonder about it.
Stupid.
Stupid! I should have known better than to let the numbskull roam loose on his own. By the time I finally thought to track him down, the damage had been done. The further damage, I should say.
I found him at Benny's studio, posing for a portrait. He must have been at it for days, because the portrait was almost finished. When I saw it, I almost had a heart attack.
Not the cost of the thing, so much—although that was horrendous enough. (And can you believe the nerve of that artist, claiming he was only charging us "family" rates? What family? The nematodes?)
No, no. It was the portrait itself. Havoc on canvas! Ruin in oil!
Even a lowlife like me could spot it. Benvenuti hadn't given it a title. Didn't need to. Take your pick:
The Brooding Strangler, Pondering the Futility of His Wicked Life.
Chokester, Gazing Into Eternity, Soulful.
The Gleam of Reason Within the Beast.
Ogre, in Repose, Regretting His Fangs and Talons.
Yeah, that kind of portrait. And I couldn't, no matter how hard I tried, get Greyboar to relinquish the monstrosity. At first, he tucked it away into a closet. But then, the first time the Cat drifted by for a visit, he hauled it out for her opinion.
"You aren't that cute," she promptly announced. "Be nice if you were, though."
Thereafter, Greyboar left it prominently displayed in his little cubbyhole of a room. Used to spend hours there, just staring at it. Practicing his "ethical entropy," he said.
Then, thankfully, my pain was eased because business hit what would have been a dry spell for us anyway, because Greyboar wouldn't have taken any of the six commissions offered to burke Amelie. Tough cookie, Amelie. She hired stranglers to strangle stranglers, and managed to stay unchoked for a fortnight. But then she died of poisoning.
The dry spell would have continued, however, because the courts ruled that the last sister on that side of the family—Arianne—was the heir. But Arianne only lasted a day. Committed suicide. Stabbed herself twelve times in the back.
Then the inheritance started running back through the masculine branches of the family. And, again, my heart was broken watching the lost commissions. I even started avoiding The Trough, so I wouldn't have to see the smug looks on the faces of all the hoi polloi stranglers lounging about the place in their newfound riches. By now the business was well into second and third cousins and every mangy ham-thumbed chokester in the trade was getting a piece of the action.
Then—finally!—there looked to be a break in the clouds. One of the remote cousins, like an idiot, decided to bring in some lawyers. Didn't take long before the estate started getting gobbled up by legal fees. At first, I was worried that the gold mine would dry up. But I needn't have feared. It seemed the smaller the estate got, the more hysterical the feeding frenzy became. Pretty soon we had lawyers hiring stranglers to choke other lawyers—and offering (can you believe it?) to let them bill by the hour.
Paradise! Not even Greyboar could claim any ethical problem with strangling lawyers!
Nor did he. "Glad to," he rumbled.
But—but—I couldn't believe it!
He insisted on doing the work pro bono!
"A professional is obligated to return something to the community, Ignace," he explained solemnly. "I just wouldn't feel right, charging for this sort of thing."
He even left off his damned Languor and charged into the thing with vigor and enthusiasm. And, of course, with him back on the job, the whole thing was settled within a couple of weeks.
There was one point where it got a little sticky. A pair of lawyers hired us to choke the other simultaneously. One of them went through me, following proper procedure. But the other one—on the very same day—accosted Greyboar himself on the street. He was so insistent that Greyboar took his money (one quid—just a token to satisfy protocol) without sending him to his agent. Naturally, having screwed the whole thing up, Greyboar started moaning and groaning about his professional ethics. I finally had to get an official clarification from the Ethics Committee. They ruled that since both commissions had been accepted in good faith, that they were both valid. But the Ethics Committee also fined Greyboar half the fee for not going through his agent like he was supposed to. It was a moral victory for me, you understand. But, on the other hand, I hated to lose the money. True, it was only half a quid. But the way Greyboar was throwing around his pro bono labor, I figured we needed every pence we could get.
Like all good things in life, of course, the gold mine eventually played itself out. Within three months there weren't any heirs left and there wasn't any estate left and what few lawyers were still alive had already gorged themselves full. The way it finally ended up, the only thing left of the estate was a single bottle of brandy. The courts ruled that the bottle should go to Henry, since there were no heirs left and he was, after all, the faithful servant who had loyally served old man Etienne for umpteen years.
Ironic, it was.
Henry certainly thought so. He came by The Trough with the bottle and insisted that Greyboar and I drink it down with him. Leuwen the barkeep normally frowned on liquor being brought into The Trough instead of purchased on the premises, but when we explained the situation he gave his wholehearted approval. Even came over and had a glass himself.
"Here's to treacherous servants!" he toasted.
So, I can hear you asking, where was the downside?
Where do you think? Philosophy, of course.
I started getting wind that something screwy was going on when I noticed that Greyboar was getting more and more cheerful as the pro bono commissions rolled in. Not at all like him, that. The truth is that Greyboar was lazy even before he discovered his "ethical entropy." After that he was impossible. Days on end he spent lounging around, grumbling about the smallest little job, whining and complaining that he had to practice his Languor. Usually, I had to crack the whip to get him to work. But here he was, charging around like a kid with a new toy, squeezing like mad, grinning all the while like an idiot.
Finally, I demanded an explanation.
"Isn't it obvious?" he boomed cheerfully. "You're seeing entropy at work! I told you this whole scheme of yours was goofy, in the long run. It makes me laugh just thinking about that old idiot! There he was, the great Etienne Avare, Merchant Prince of New Sfinctr, bumping off one relative after another so he'd be able to keep the fortune intact. A futile attempt to outsmart the second law of thermodynamics if I ever saw one! And what happened? Tell me! What happened?"
By now I had my hands over my ears. Damned if I was going to listen to this gibberish! Greyboar grabbed my hands and pulled them away. I resisted, of course, but it was like a mouse resisting an elephant.
"What happened?" he continued. "No sooner does Etienne get what he's been working for—for decades, no less!—than it all falls apart in months. It's perfect, perfect! Classic example of entropy in action! Total verification of my philosophy!"
"What a load of bullshit!" I fired back. "Sure and the Avare fortune are history—so what? We've made more money out of the deal than we've ever made in our lives! And I've saved up most of the old bastard's honorarium, too!"
I know, I know, I know, don't tell me—bad move, Ignace. As the wise man says: "A braggart and his brag are soon parted."
Sure enough, Greyboar grinned from ear to ear and stuck out his paw. His great, ugly paw.
"Fork over, Ignace," he said. "The Cat and I are going off on a spree. I figure, why try to save the money? It'll just go the way of all energy, anyway—scattered to the wind."
Insult, naturally, was now added to injury. "It's entropy, Ignace," he said solemnly, "you can't fight it."
So I had to cough it all up. Everything I'd hoarded! Blown in a week!