by Eric Flint
"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!
Chapter 8.
A Week in the Country
I would have stayed in our garret, sulking, but when Jenny and
Angela heard about the spree they came and dragged me out. Made me go along. Greyboar had invited them, of course. "Natural-born entropists," he called them. "The perfect company for an outing devoted to the second law of thermodynamics!" He was not all that enthusiastic about me coming along. Called me a sourpuss, if you can believe it? But Jenny and Angela put their foot down, and that was that.
Then, Jenny and Angela got the crazy idea to invite Benvenuti along, too. Said he was such a charming man that he was bound to add something to the festivities.
I was utterly against the idea, but I had enough sense to keep my mouth shut. I knew the silly girls would accuse me of jealousy, as absurd as it was. And given that Greyboar was still being a bit grouchy with me, I realized that my opposition would be sure to swing it the other way.
Besides, I wasn't worried. I knew that Greyboar wouldn't really want someone around for a whole week who would remind him constantly of Gwendolyn. I knew it for a certainty, because I didn't want to be reminded of Gwendolyn. Not that much, anyway.
And, sure enough . . .
"Well, I don't know . . ." he muttered, scratching his head. Greyboar was sprawled on the couch in Jenny and Angela's living room. The Cat was curled up next to him, half asleep, her head nestled on his shoulder. Angela was perched on the armrest of my chair, looking like a cheerful little bird.
The strangler's black eyes glanced around the little room, like rats looking for a place to hide. I tried not to look smug.
"Well, I don't know . . ."
"Oh, come on!" chirped Angela. "Sure, and just having him around will probably makes you feel sad, reminding you of your estranged sister and everything. But you're always sad about that, anyway."
"So's Ignace," chirped Jenny. She was standing right behind me, her hands on my shoulders. I stiffened and started to utter a protest, but she clapped her hands over my mouth. "Is too!" she chirped. "Keep talking, Angela!"
"And besides," Angela chirped on, "it's your plain and simple philosophical duty." Greyboar's eyes almost bulged. "Didn't Ignace say anybody who'd fall in love with Gwendolyn is nuts? And an artist! He's bound to have an angle on entropy, whatever the silly thing is, that you never even thought of. Probably lots of them."
Greyboar's eyes got unfocused. Oh, no! I thought.
"Good point," he said. "Sure—why not?"
* * *
So Jenny and Angela and Greyboar and the Cat hired a carriage and charged off to see the artist. I stayed behind, sulking.
Then—then!—when they got back, it turned out they'd decided to invite Hrundig, too. That had been Angela's idea, seeing as how she'd been charmed by how nice Hrundig had been the first time they visited, even if he was a brutal barbarian mercenary.
"He's a brutal barbarian mercenary!" I protested.
Angela frowned at me. "And so what? You and Greyboar are brutal mercenaries, aren't you? And without even the excuse of being barbarians!" She patted me on the cheek. "But we don't hold it against you, now, do we? Not much, anyway."
I choked and spluttered, trying to come up with a counter. Greyboar just looked sheepish. "Well . . ." he muttered. "Well . . ."
"Are too!" chirped Jenny. "Depraved and horrible desperadoes, even if you're actually kind of sweet and Ignace isn't but he's real cute and Angela and I like the way he fusses over us even if he is a pain in the ass sometimes."
I choked and spluttered, trying to come up with a counter. Greyboar just gave me a sweet smile. Sickening, it was.
Then—then!—it turned out that Hrundig had a girlfriend and he asked if he could bring her along. By that point, Greyboar and I were completely at sea. "Sure, why not?" one of us muttered. Can't remember which one.
Then—then!—it turned out Hrundig's girlfriend was a widow with three daughters and she wanted to know if she could bring them along. I don't think either Greyboar or I even muttered, at that point.
The thing was turning into a damned migrating barbarian horde!
And the worst of it was—who was going to pay for all this? As if I didn't know.
Yup. "It's our treat, you little tightwad," growled Greyboar. "Try to be a little gentlemanly about it, will you?"
About the only bright spot in the whole thing was that after we decided we had to rent one of those expensive pleasure barges, it turned out that Benvenuti was an experienced yachtsman—was there anything the damned man couldn't do?—and Hrundig, of course, was an experienced sailor in a different kind of way—not that we're planning to plunder any monasteries, of course—so we were able to save money on hiring a crew as well.
Which, of course, didn't really save us any money at all because as soon as they heard that, Jenny and Angela started oohing and ahing over the most expensive and luxurious barge at the piers instead of the perfectly good little commercial fishing craft that I had my eye on—okay, so it smells a little, so what?—and the Cat made some offhand remark about the pleasures of wallowing for a week in offal and that was that. One gold-plated barge coming up.
* * *
I admit it was a nice barge. Very nice, in fact. Everybody had staterooms and everything, and the "accouterments," as they say, were, as they say, "nonpareil." And once we pushed off from the wharf and I resigned myself to the inevitable, I found myself actually starting to look forward to the trip. Especially once we sailed up the river out of the city, heading south into the countryside.
Mind you, I'm really not that big a fan of "rural scenery." Plants are pretty much all green, when you get down it, and if you've seen one tree you've pretty much seen them all. Still—it was nice to get away from New Sfinctr. Much as I'm a city lad, I'm not about to claim the place isn't a pure and simple eyesore.
Not to mention nose-sore. True, New Sfinctr does have what they call a "sewer system." Queen Belladonna prided herself on what she called her "modernization program," also referred to as the "window to the east."
But it doesn't really do much good to build a sewer system when the work is contracted out to cronies and the powers-that-be are spending too much on their palaces to waste money on such frills as hiring actual sewer workers. Instead, the powers-that-be would periodically order the porkers to round up some "vagrant" dwarves and set them to work in the sewers. Which is the kind of idea that only Sfinctrian dimwit officials would come up with, since once you let a dwarf get underground you can pretty much kiss that dwarf good-bye.
New impromptu and unplanned sewer, coming up—and off he goes. The end result being not only that the sewers still aren't cleaned but you soon have a "sewer system" that's more system than sewer, if you know what I mean. You know that kind of cheese that's mostly holes instead of cheese? If so, you get the picture.
Ah, yes. Fresh air, sunshine, the lot. It really was pretty nice. Especially after we popped open the wine and
the nice bread Jenny and Angela bought, and they dug into their baskets and brought out the meat pies and the kind of cheese that's mostly holes instead of cheese, which is fine by me because I don't like cheese.
Then it got even better because Madame Frissault—Hrundig's girlfriend—opened up the huge baskets she and her daughters had brought along and it turned out they'd spent a whole day baking practically anything that can be baked. And they were good bakers.
At that point, I became reconciled to the whole thing. I admit, my change of mood was helped along by the fact that Madame Frissault—Olga, as she insisted we call her—was a very jolly kind of lady and her daughters were pleasant enough. Very pretty, too, all three of them. Which, for me, was what they call an "academic question," but it was still nice to see.
Soon enough, it became clear that all three girls had a massive crush on Benny. Especially the oldest, Beatrice, who was maybe a little older than Jenny. Beatrice looked a lot like her mother. Dark-haired and dark-complexioned, almost as much as Angela. A little on the plump side, in an attractive buxom kind of way, with a face that wasn't exactly pretty but so pleasant that it was really very pretty, if that makes any sense at all. I thought the pince-nez spectacles perched on her nose were a little silly, but from the way the girl devoured books the whole trip, I suppose it wasn't really an affectation.
But while Benny obviously felt very affectionate toward the daughters, and was always flirting a little with Beatrice, there wasn't anything in it. If you know what I mean. A very handsome and sophisticated man in his mid-twenties handling a teenager's crush on him with ease and gentility and a heart of gold.
It was so tiresome. Especially having to listen to Jenny and Angela babble on in our stateroom about the artist's splendid personal qualities. Which, needless to say, they highlighted with the occasional contrast to another individual. So tiresome.
"Why d'you put up with me, then?" I snarled at one point. "And stop telling me I'm cute! Just because I'm a red-headed freckled shrimp doesn't make me a pet!"
I was sitting cross-legged at the head of the big bed in our stateroom. Jenny and Angela were sitting in the same position in the center of the bed. I crossed my arms over my chest and assumed a pose of great dignity.
"Pout—pout—pout!" squealed Angela gleefully, clapping her hands.
Jenny grinned. "I do believe his feelings are hurt," she cooed.
Angela squealed again. "Feelings! We're making progress!" A moment later both of them had me on my back and were tickling me mercilessly.
And I hate being tickled!
Well . . . usually.
In this case, it wasn't so bad, because one thing led to another and maybe an hour or so later I was feeling better. A lot better, actually. Especially after Angela fell asleep with her head nestled on my chest and Jenny kissed me and whispered, "Don't worry about it, Ignace. We're a little family now, sort of. Even if it's illegal by law and we're dead meat if the Church catches us. A real one, not like what Angela had and I lost."
I turned my head and looked at her, and saw that for once Jenny wasn't teasing me. There wasn't any smile at all on her lips, just in her eyes. Blue eyes as clear as the sky almost never gets in New Sfinctr.
I felt an ache coming up and pushed it under. I guess my lips must have tightened or something, because Jenny started shaking her head. "Sooner or later, Ignace, it's going to come out."
I guess I must have shaken my own head, because Jenny put her hands on my cheeks and made me look at her. "Yes, it will," she whispered, and then pulled my face into her neck. "Got to."
It was a tender moment, really was. Then, of course, Jenny had to go ruin it by laughing and saying: "Got to! You fuss too much over everything to leave anything alone! S'true!"
Needless to say, I started denying the ridiculous charge—and vigorously, too!—but that woke up Angela and once she got wind of the argument I was outnumbered again.
And I hate being tickled!
* * *
That night, we pulled into one of those spas that they have for rich people up the river and took rooms in what they called The Lodge. Silly name for a hotel, if you ask me. Like calling a restaurant The Eat. But I kept the sarcastic thought to myself, lest I be accused of uncouthness or something.
To be honest, I was a bit worried about the whole thing. While Greyboar and I were definitely "men about town," this was what you might call a whole different kind of town. I was half sure they'd take one look at us and pitch us out on our ear, even if Greyboar and I were wearing our best outfits.
But, again—life is so unfair—Benvenuti proved to be a master at the kind of suave assurance that gets all doors opened and the carpets rolled out. And Olga Frissault underwent a magical transformation from a cheerful mother on an outing to a grim, implacable matron of high society. Every desk clerk and bellhop in the place avoided her gaze like they would that of a basilisk.
So, even though Greyboar and I and Hrundig got a few skeptical glances, there was no trouble. In fact, Benny wrangled up an entire set of interconnected suites, complete with our own small little dining room.
"I think we should perhaps stay here for the rest of the week," Olga suggested tentatively, after the bellhops left and the door was closed. "There's really not much change in the scenery until you get to Murraine, and—"
Greyboar coughed. I think I started hacking.
"Not a good idea," I managed to get out. Hack, hack. "By all means—let's stay here!"
"By all means," rumbled Greyboar. "Splendid idea."
Olga seemed a little startled at our eager agreement. Hrundig gave us that humorless grin he does better than anybody I've ever seen except a shark I saw once in a nightmare.
"Job went sour, eh?" he chuckled.
I glared at him. For a moment—it was on the tip of my tongue!—I almost blurted out a hot retort. Sour, my ass! We made a bundle! But, under the circumstances, it would have perhaps been uncultured. Especially if I had to explain exactly why the Duke of Murraine might view our presence with disfavor. Not, mind you, that the gentleman had any reason to hold a grudge. Quite the contrary! But he might start wondering who else had paid for our services. And, dukes being dukes, might leap to the assumption that his heir apparent—
Well. No need to pursue that line of thought.
* * *
So, in the end, we wound up spending the whole week at that lodge. And, by the end of the stay, I understood why they called it a "lodge."
"Get moving, Ignace," hissed Jenny. "You can't live in luxury forever."
"Why not?" I whined. "I like this magnificent four-poster—"
Alas, Angela dislodged me from the royal bed in question. None too gently, either, I might add. And neither she nor Jenny were any gentler about the way they more or less frog-marched me out of our suite.
On our way through the door, I cast a despairing glance backward. Jenny chuckled and kissed me on the cheek. "Memories, Ignace. We'll always have them."
"Memories," I muttered. "Damn things are worse than ghosts."
Chapter 9.
Downhill
When we got back, I was in the best mood I'd been in years.
But it didn't last for very long. Sooner than you could believe, things started going downhill. Greyboar called it entropy. I called it the innate tendency of life to get fucked up. He insisted we were talking about the same thing, which absolutely infuriated me.
My way of putting it was simple common sense, backed up by long experience. It had nothing to do with any damned philosophy.
Oh, and sure, we didn't fall into poverty. Somewhat to my surprise, even after that luxurious spree, we still had quite a bit of Avare's honorarium left. Enough to last us for quite a while, even after Greyboar got pressured by the Cat into moving us into swankier digs. Well. Less hovelish digs, it might be better to say. I was able to hold the line somewhere.
In addition to what was left of the honorarium, business kept picking up. Partly that was because the life a
nd times of Sfinctria—all of Grotum, in fact—was sure and purely going to hell in a handbasket. After the fiasco in Prygg—I repeat: my lips are sealed; I vow eternal silence—the Ozarines got so furious they just invaded eastern Grotum outright. No more of that namby-pamby "covert action" stuff. (Weird phrase, that. What I mean is, the action's never covert to the covertee, who's presumably the guy that's supposed to be kept in the dark.)
Queen Belladonna, naturally, immediately hailed the invasion and signed about eight million treaties with Ozar. The upper classes sided with her to a man—cleaved to her bosom like newborn babes, more like—chattering about realpolitik. The middle classes more or less went along, muttering glumly about devils you know and devils you don't. The intelligentsia—the young ones, anyhow—screamed about collaboration and rioted in the streets. The great unwashed masses went on about eight million general strikes and built barricades every other Tuesday, bellowing rowdy slogans in which the terms "boot-licker" and "toady" vied in popularity with "puppet" and—always a crowd pleaser—"worthless cocksucker."
The Ecclesiarchy also gave their blessing to the enterprise. The Ozarine Empire was officially anointed with the title "Protector of the Faith," which the Twelve Popes even managed to say with a straight face. Nice trick, that, given that Ozarines are notorious free-thinkers and keep the Church on a very tight leash in Ozarae. A civilized folk, the Ozarines.
The "blessing of the Ecclesiarchy," needless to say, translated itself into an inquisitorial frenzy and priests sermonizing about the "dwarf menace." Before you knew it, there were pogroms practically every week.
Would-be pogroms, I should say. In the event, all those years of forcing "vagrant" dwarves into the sewers paid off for the dwarves, because they had a million hidey-holes to scurry into. Stinky hidey-holes, sure, but smelling like crap beats smelling like a roast.
For a while, the pogromist mobs were enraged by their slim pickings and started whipping themselves into a bigger frenzy. But then—we heard about it, we didn't see it—Gwendolyn and The Roach surfaced and organized a counterforce. One of the big mobs ran right into an ambush and by the time Gwendolyn and The Roach and maybe two dozen surly agitators and two hundred really surly proletarian types and two thousand really surly dwarves got finished, the pogromists had been pretty much pogromized to a pulp. I heard the sewers were clogged for a week in that part of the city.