by Eric Flint
"Master, I am undone!"
Iyesu's shriek stirred the King to a flurry of activity. He raised his head from its pillow.
"Can you do nothing?"
"The probability is small, Your Highness. Indeed, were it not for my incomparable training in the mystic arts of bodily control, I would already be dead. The spine is rather central to all human endeavor. But I shall make the attempt."
And so saying, the master of the martial arts slithered his way to Greyboar's side and tried a few blows.
" 'Tis as I feared, the leverage is no longer available. On the other hand," he mused, "there are possibilities for the future. Perhaps even a new school!"
"Too late, I suppose, to prevent my assassination?"
"Indeed so, master. Even the great Ashokai required four years to found his school. I fear it shall take me longer. There are, it must be admitted, certain obstacles to overcome." Here he seized Greyboar's ankle and attempted a throw. "Just as I predicted," he complained, flipping and flopping about, "it's the leverage."
"So be it," yawned the King. Greyboar advanced and seized his neck. "Yet do I regret the truncation of my philosophic endeavor."
Greyboar's fingers halted in mid-squeeze. A great fear seized my heart.
"What philosophic endeavor?" demanded the strangler.
"Greyboar!" I shouted. "Burke the bugger and let's be off!"
"One moment. What philosophic endeavor?"
The King stared up at the strangler. "Surely you are not interested in such matters?" he wheezed. His round face was very flushed, which was not surprising, given that Greyboar's hands were buried in the rolls of fat adorning the royal neck.
"To the contrary," replied Greyboar, "philosophy is my life's passion."
"Indeed!" gasped the King. "It seems . . . an odd . . . avo . . . cation . . . for an as . . . sassin."
"Why? It seems to me quite appropriate. After all, my trade brings me in close proximity to the basic metaphysical questions—pain, suffering, torment, death, and the like. A most fertile field for ethical ponderations."
"I had . . . not . . . con . . . sidered . . ." The King's face was now bright purple. "But . . . I . . . ex . . . pire."
"Oh. Excuse me." Greyboar released the royal gullet. "Professional reflexes, I'm afraid."
"Quite so," agreed the King. His Royal Rotundness managed to sit up, coughing and gagging and massaging his throat.
Well, you can imagine my state of mind! By now I was hopping about in a rage. "Greyboar! Will you cease this madness and get on with the job?"
The next moment I was peering up Greyboar's massive hook of a nose, his beady black eyes visible at a distance. So does the mouse examine the eagle's beak just before lunch.
"You will annoy me," he predicted.
"Never," I disclaimed.
"That is not true. You have annoyed me before, on several occasions."
Prudence be damned, I'm not the patient type. I was hopping about again. I fear my voice was shrill.
"Yes, and it's always the same thing! Will you please stick to business? Save the philosophy for later!"
"I cannot discuss metaphysics with a dead man." He turned to the King. "Is this not so?"
"Indeed," concurred His Majesty. "Although the transcendentalists would have it otherwise."
Greyboar's fingers twitched.
"Not my school," added the King hastily.
I saw my chance, while they were distracted. I drew my dagger from my boot and sprang for the royal throat.
I know, I know, it was stupid. But the aggravation of it all! Of course, Greyboar snatched me in midair.
"As I foretold, you have annoyed me." Moments later, my arms and legs were tied up in knots. Square knots, to boot. I hate square knots—they're not natural to the human anatomy.
"Last time you tied me in a granny," I complained.
"Last time you got loose."
He turned back to the King. "And now, Your Highness, be plain and to the point. What is this philosophic endeavor of which you spoke?"
"I have discovered the true philosophy, the correct metaphysical basis upon which to construct the principles of human conduct. Even when you entered, was I perfecting my discipline."
"Liar!" I shouted. "You were lazing about, eating a fig!"
Greyboar glared at me and I shut up. Tongue knots are the worst.
The King gazed at me reproachfully. "You misinterpret these trifles," he said, waving a vague hand at his surroundings.
Trifles! His silk robe alone was worth enough to feed all the paupers of New Sfinctr for a year. And New Sfinctr has a lot of paupers.
The King got that long-suffering look in his face. You know, the one rich people get when they talk about the triviality of wealth in the scheme of things.
"These small luxuries are but the material aids to my philosophy," he said, "necessary, I regret to say, solely because I have not yet sufficiently advanced in my discipline to dispense with them. I am only, as yet, an accomplished Languid. I am on the verge, however—I am convinced of it!—of achieving Torpor, whereupon I will naturally dispose of these intrinsically worthless comforts."
"What is this Torpor you seek?" asked Greyboar.
"To a question, I respond with a question. What is the fundamental law of the universe?"
"He's stalling for time, Greyboar!" Sure enough, I was tongue-tied. A half hitch.
Greyboar turned back to the King. "Conservation of matter and energy."
His Highness began to sneer, thought better of it.
"To be sure, but the conservation of matter and energy is at bottom a mere statement of equivalence. From the ethical standpoint, a miserable tautology."
The strangler scratched his chin. "I admit that it does not appear to bear upon one's moral principles."
"Course not!" snorted the King. "Subject's fit only for tinkerers. No, sir, the whole secret lies with the second law of thermodynamics."
Greyboar's frown has to be seen to be believed.
"Surely it's obvious!" exclaimed the King. "Philosophy—ethics, that is, the rest is trivia—concerns itself with the conduct of men, with the direction of their actions, not the substance of their deeds. To place our ethics upon a sound metaphysical basis, therefore, we must ask the question: To what end do all things in the Universe, without exception, conduct themselves?"
Greyboar was still frowning. The King's jowls quivered with agitation.
"Come, come, my good man! To what destination does Time's Arrow point?"
"Maximum entropy," responded the strangler.
"Precisely!"
"But life works against entropy, human life most of all. At least, in the short run."
"Yes! Yes! And there's the folly of it all!"
I hadn't the faintest idea what they were babbling about, but all of a sudden Greyboar's eyes bugged out. Never seen it happen before. What I mean is, he wasn't what you'd call the excitable type.
"I've got a bad feeling about this," I mumbled to myself.
"Of course!" bellowed the chokester. He swept the King into his embrace. "Master! Guru!"
"I've got a very bad feeling about this," I mumbled to myself.
Then everything fell apart at once. A loud crash indicated the escape of the King's soldiers from their makeshift prison. As if that weren't bad enough, I could hear the squeals which announced the arrival of the porkers. Bound to happen, of course, a strangler's got no business dawdling on the job.
Fortunately, Greyboar hadn't lost his ears along with his senses.
"Time presses, master." He set the King back on the divan. "Quickly, what is the Way?"
The King frowned. "Why, 'tis simple enough, in its bare outline. The achievement of ethical entropy lies along the ascending stages of Languor, Torpor, and Stupor. In turn, achievement of these steps requires following the eightfold Path of Chaos through application of the Foursome Random Axioms. But where is the haste? I shall intercede on your behalf with the authorities. You can be sure
of it! Long have I sought a true disciple. We shall discuss our philosophy at length."
"Languor, torpor, stupor, eightfold path, foursome axioms, languor, torpor, stupor . . ." muttered Greyboar, like a schoolboy reciting his tables. He seized the King by the throat. "I fear not, my guru."
The King's face swelled like a blowfish. "But . . . but . . . "
Greyboar shook his head sadly. "Matter of professional ethics."
The whirlwind was upon us! Alarum! Alarum! Hack and hew! The King's guards filled the room, the porkers close behind. Bobbing, weaving, ducking, dodging—he can be nimble when he has to be—Greyboar scooped me up and headed for the door. He was handicapped at first, what with me in one hand and the King in the other. But once the choke was finished—I'd like to stress that point, there've been allegations in certain quarters; I'll admit he was eccentric, but his craftsmanship was impeccable—he had one hand free and that was that. Guards and porkers went flying and we were out of the King's chamber.
But by then, of course, we'd been recognized.
"It's Greyboar and his shill!" squealed the porkers.
"I resent that!" I cried, finally tongue-loose. (I'm good at half hitches.) "I'm a bona fide agent!" But it's hard to pull off dignified reproof when you're being carried like a cabbage. I got an upside-down view of the sorcerer as we made our way through the madding crowd. He was still rooted to the spot, paralyzed by the Void.
"—for if what is were many it must be infinitely small, because the units of which it is composed must be indivisible and therefore without magnitude; yet, it must also be infinitely great, because each of its parts must have another before it from which it is separated and this must be likewise—"
Magrit, there's a proper witch. Mind you, if I'd known what the potion was, I'd never have used it. I'm not what you'd call soft-hearted, but that doesn't make me a bloody sadist.
Once we got into the corridor, it was easy going. Porkers all over the place, of course, and the Hospice's staff and filthy-rich clientele ogling and staring, all agog and atwitter, but give Greyboar some finger room and it took a small army to pull him down.
Truth to tell, it wasn't long before we were out on the street, and from there into the sanctuary of the Flankn, with its maze of alleys, byways, tenements, cellars, attics, and all the other accouterments of the Thieves' Quarter. On our way, I gave Greyboar a good talking to, you can be sure of it, but I doubt he heard a word I said. His mind, plain to see, was elsewhere.
Eventually, I ran out of breath, and besides, we'd arrived at one of our hideouts. "All right," I concluded sourly, "untie me and let's split up. Hide yourself somewhere and don't move around—you're too conspicuous. I'll make the rendezvous with Rashkuta and collect the rest of our fee. Meet me in the attic over old Fyqulf's place the day after tomorrow. At night, mind you, if you move around during the daylight, you'll get spotted for sure."
Two days later, I was sprawled on the attic floor counting our money. Things were coming up roses. I'd expected some haggling over the balance owed, but nary a peep. I suspect, after viewing the carnage in the Hospice, that His Acneship gave up any thought of stiffing us.
It was by far the biggest fee we'd ever collected, and I was feeling quite pleased with the world. "Lucre," I gloated, "abundance, riches, affluence, pelf, the fleshpots! The cornucopia! The full measure!—and then some! O wallow, wallow, wallow, wallow, wallow, wallow—" I'm afraid I got quite carried away. I didn't even notice Greyboar come in until he tapped me on the shoulder.
"Snap out of it," he grumbled. "It's only money." Imagine my indignation. But it was no use. Greyboar slouched against the wall, gazing at his hands.
"Without my guru to lead the way, the road will be long and hard."
"Ha! With what we've got here you can slobber around in all the extravagance you need to achieve—what'd the old geezer call it?—sloth, wasn't it?" I giggled; Greyboar glared. "No, no, that's not quite right! Languor—of course, that's the word!"
"I fear not," said Greyboar. "The hunt's up all over the city. The whole army's been turned out. The Flankn's crawling with informers and stool pigeons. We'll need every copper we've got just to bribe the porkers and get out of Sfinctria. Starvation rations, we'll be on, until you scrounge up some work. Even that'll be hard, being in a different city and all."
I laughed, gay abandon. "Is that what's troubling you? Fie on it! D'you think I hadn't figured this all out before I took on the job? Sure, for the moment there's a little heat. Looks bad, prominent tourist getting throttled. But what does the Queen of Sfinctria care, when all is said and done? Unless there's pressure from the Sundjhab—zilch, that's what Belladonna cares! And the Prince—remember him, he's our client?—he's the new King of the Sundjhab now. He'll cool things down right quick."
"I fear not." He scowled. "It's not the loss of the money that bothers me, it's the dislocation—the interruption of my habits, the distractions. It'll make it difficult to concentrate on my Languor."
"You're mad! The main thing the little—pardon, His Puissant Pupness—wants is for the hubbub to die down. After all, if we're caught, how's he to know we wouldn't sing like birds? No, no, Greyboar, take my word for it—the one thing you can be sure His Pimple will be doing is to move heaven and earth to get the hunt called off."
"Under other circumstances, no doubt he would." Greyboar rubbed his nose thoughtfully. "I think our best bet's to make for Prygg. I know the captain of the guard at the southeast gate; we can bribe him. And once we get to Prygg, Magrit'll put us up till the heat's off. Have to do a job for her, of course. No freebies from Magrit. Proper witch, she is."
"What're you running on—" A queasy feeling came to my stomach. "Wait a minute. What d'you mean, 'under other circumstances'?"
Greyboar looked at me, surprised. "Those circumstances under which the Prince would call off the hunt."
"But why wouldn't he—" A very queasy feeling. "You've seen him!"
"Last night."
"Why? Rashkuta had the money—I collected it."
"Money." He waved the subject away. "To refute his disrespect for philosophy. Imagine—hiring me to strangle my own guru!"
"To refute his disrespect for philosophy?"
"Well, naturally, what did you expect? I found it necessary to acquaint him with the second law of thermodynamics."
"You—what? What did you say to him?"
"Say to him? Nothing."
I was on my feet. "What did you do to the Prince?"
"I aligned him with Time's Arrow."
I was hopping up and down in a fury. "What does all that gibberish mean?"
Greyboar grinned, a cavern in the abyss.
"The Prince has achieved maximum entropy."
The Realm of Words
Damn Les Six. The way I see it, it's all their fault. Sure, you could blame Wolfgang. Humans would. That's because their minds are twisted and whenever disaster strikes—which for them, is about twelve times a day—they're always trying to figure out who's to blame by looking to see who caused it.
Idiots, the lot of them. The more educated they are, the worse. The real eggheads among them go so far as to prate on and on about the sufficient versus the necessary cause—blah! blah!
Who cares who causes a disaster? What's important is—who's responsible for getting me caught in the middle of it?
The lousy drunks, that's who. Ever since we arrived in the Mutt, Les Six have been acting like the world's just one giant party. Yesterday they kept me fetching alepots until midnight. And they started drinking at noon!
True, I didn't have to listen to the windbag today. I don't care what Magrit says about the so-called "best actual sorcerer in the world." Zulkeh is a windbag, windbag, windbag, windbag. That's it—pure and simple—question closed.
But it wasn't all that great. The reason I didn't have to listen to the windbag is because Zulkeh was holed up all day with the other windbags, plotting some idiot scheme to travel to the "Realm of Words."
No kidding. I'm serious. Can you believe it? Why would they need to travel to the Realm of Words when they already live in it twenty four hours a day? Not only that! Everybody else seems to think this project is a really grand old idea—Magrit and Gwendolyn were talking about it all day! And when Les Six finally stumbled into the salon around mid-afternoon, belly-aching about their hang-overs (for which, naturally, the only cure is more drink—Wittgenstein! fetch us some alepots!), no sooner do they let out their first collective belch than they start prattling about the prattler's project!