The Philosophical Strangler

by Eric Flint

  As we went down the final corridor, heading toward a big set of double doors at the end, we began hearing piano music coming from beyond. By the time we got to the doors, the music was very loud. And very beautiful.

  "That's one of the Grump's intermezzos," said Olga. "Love that piece. It's being played beautifully, too."

  The Sister looked at her like she was crazy. "Well, of course the Grump can play his own music beautifully!" she exclaimed. She opened the door and strode through.

  Following her, we found ourselves in a very large room. There were maybe a dozen people seated on chairs toward the center of the room, in a semicircle around a grand piano. At the piano, playing, sat a short, pudgy man with a great beard.

  "I'll be damned," I whispered to Greyboar. "It's the Grump." I recognized him, of course. Years back, he'd come into The Trough more than a few times, before he shook the dust of New Sfinctr off his feet for good.

  "That's not the least of it," whispered back Greyboar. "Gramps is here too. So's the Blockhead. And—I don't believe it! Look! It's the Big Banjo!"

  Sure enough, it was the Big Banjo, sitting in a chair. His back was straight as a ramrod. He was watching the Grump play with that hawk-faced intensity which would make him stand out in any crowd even if you didn't know who he was.

  "The Fallen Woman's with him," whispered Olga. She almost sounded awestruck. "I've always wanted to meet her. But, you know, she hardly ever leaves their villa."

  Soon enough, the music ended. The Sister approached the group.

  "Pardon me, Hildegard," she said. "I hate to interrupt, but Greyboar's here."

  "So soon?" came a voice clear as a chime. A figure arose.

  I'd been so surprised to see the Big Banjo that I hadn't really looked at any of the other occupants of the room. But now my attention was drawn completely to the woman who was advancing toward us, smiling broadly, her hands outstretched in a gesture of warm welcome.

  Quite a striking woman she would have been, anyway, what with her beautiful white hair and a face that positively radiated intelligence. She wore a very nice outfit, too, much like the other Sisters but with a certain elegance of the cut that was quite noticeable.

  But mainly, it was her size. She was at least seven and a half feet tall! I realized then that I hadn't noticed her sitting down because I'd assumed she'd been standing.

  She wasn't built along the same lines as Greyboar—none of his obscene massiveness, you'll understand—but she still seemed to dwarf him, stooping over and clasping him like he was her long-lost brother. And when she got to me—well!

  The damned woman picked me up! Like I was some kind of toddler! There I was, held up in her huge hands, while she inspected me.

  "And this must be Ignace! Why, he's such a sweet-looking little cherub of a man! All those freckles! Doesn't look at all like the evil imp Gwendolyn described."

  Right then, alarm bells started going off in my head. I knew it! I knew it! I knew there was something fishy about this job!

  We'd been suckered!

  Not fair!

  Chapter 12.

  The Trouble With Sisters

  "Gwendolyn?" asked Greyboar, his jaw sagging. "My sister?"

  The Abbess looked at him. "Of course, Gwendolyn. How else would I have gotten your name and address?" She frowned. "Surely you don't think I keep a list of the world's great chokesters in my study? After all! I am the Abbess of the Sisters of Tranquility."

  "Gwendolyn?" he repeated. "My sister?" His jaw was now down to his chest.

  The Abbess' frown grew deeper. "Oh, dear," she said, "Gwendolyn told me you were a stupid jackass. But I just thought she was being harsh and unforgiving, like she usually is. I didn't realize she meant you were actually retarded."

  Greyboar's jaw snapped shut. He glowered.

  "That dirty, rotten—" He stopped, but the glower didn't.

  "Oh, what a relief," sighed the Abbess. "It would have been difficult, the job ahead, with a moron for a chokester."

  Time for the agent to take center stage. "And just exactly what is this job you—"

  But she cut me off with a gesture. "Oh, not tonight! Tomorrow we'll have plenty of time to discuss the job. Actually, we'll need most of the day to get everything prepared. We really weren't expecting you so soon. But no business tonight! Tonight is for music."

  Her gaze now moved to Olga Frissault, who was listening to the music with rapt attention. "I'm afraid I've not been introduced to your companions," the Abbess said pleasantly.

  Greyboar and I both flushed. Well, he did. So I can only assume that I did also, since my skin is about as fair as any redhead's ever gets.

  "Sorry," I muttered. Then, I hesitated. On the outs or not, the Abbess was still part of the Church. I wasn't at all sure how she was going to react to the presence of outright heretics—especially Joeists!—even if Olga had insisted that there wouldn't be any problems.

  As it happened, Olga herself took the plunge.

  "I'm Olga Frissault, and these are my daughters," she announced quietly. "I'm the widow of—"

  "Dreadful!" exclaimed the Abbess. "Absolutely dreadful!" She reared up to her full towering height, glaring furiously. I braced myself for a ruckus.

  "Bad enough the Inquisition should treat anyone in that manner!" the Abbess snapped. "But to have done so to one of Grotum's greatest artists! Dreadful!"

  A moment later she was giving Olga that giantess embrace. Then, the girls. As huge as she was, Hildegard managed to hug all three of them in one swoop.

  My jaw was probably hanging loose. The Frissault woman was the widow of an artist? A famous one, to boot? Plump, cheerful, unassuming Olga? The same Olga who had a thing going with a rude and crude barbarian?

  What was the world coming to?!

  Then I remembered the way Olga had browbeaten the lackeys in that exclusive lodge, and all those weird little ways in which Hrundig didn't fit the image of a proper Alsask. And then—finally—the name registered.

  Frissault? That Frissault? One of the few artists I'd ever actually heard of?! One of Grotum's most famous national martyrs?! Olga's husband?!

  I was probably muttering to myself. I hate being caught unawares, like some kind of country bumpkin. However, while I was staggering to catch up, things were progressing apace.

  "You'll be seeking asylum, of course," the Abbess announced. "In the Mutt, eventually, I should think. But, for the moment, welcome to the Abbey. You'll be quite safe here, until whatever arrangements you need can be made for your further travels. Or, if you prefer, you may stay here indefinitely."

  Olga was smiling now. Then, chuckling. "You do understand, Abbess, that we are Joeists. So we're in the odd position of seeking asylum in a Church institution from—ah, from—"

  "The Lord Almighty Himself," finished Hildegard. "I fail to see the problem. Really! Sauce for the gander, sauce for the goose. It would be quite unethical for the Old Geister to insist on being made an Exception to His own rules, now wouldn't it?"

  My brain groped with the peculiar logic involved with that last remark. I'm no theologian, to put it mildly, but I always thought the whole point of the exercise was that God was the exception to the rules.

  But Hildegard didn't leave me any time to flounder. She had already embraced Hrundig and Jenny and Angela, and was turning away, motioning all of us to follow.

  "Come," she commanded. "Let me introduce you to the others."

  When we were introduced to the Blockhead, he gave us a polite but distant greeting. A fierce-looking man, he was. I was awestruck, myself. Everybody says he's the world's greatest composer. Except when they say that Gramps is the world's greatest composer, and he was the one we were introduced to next. Now Gramps was another kettle of fish entirely. He was one of the nicest and friendliest old gents you'll ever run into, whether or not he or the Blockhead is the world's greatest composer. Which is what everybody argues about except when they're arguing that the Deadbeat is the world's greatest composer, and he was th
e one we were introduced to next. Huh! Maybe he is the world's greatest composer, I wouldn't know. But he was certainly a silly little chap. Vulgar, too.

  But the truth is, like most lowlifes, my taste runs to opera. And so the big thrill of the evening was being introduced to the Big Banjo and his old lady.

  We'd met before, actually, but under the circumstances at the time I was sure he wouldn't have noticed us in the crowd.

  I was wrong. He interrupted the Abbess halfway through the introduction.

  "I am already acquainted with the gentlemen, Hildegard," he said. "In point of fact, I am deeply in their debt. These two were among the stalwarts who defended me at The Sign of the Trough upon that occasion when the Ecclesiarchs' lackeys set upon me in the streets of New Sfinctr. Outraged, they were, at the implications of my latest opera. Fortunately, 'twas close to the Flankn, so I was able to effect my escape. Even so, it would have been sticky had it not been for the proper Trough-men."

  "Wasn't just us," rumbled Greyboar modestly. "Whole Flankn turned out, once the word spread. Gave the bootlickers quite the drubbing, we did." Greyboar actually blushed a little. "Nothing really, for the national hero of Grotum."

  About the only thing that would arouse Greyboar's very, very, very faint tinge of pan-Groutchery was the Big Banjo's music. The chorus, sure, like everybody else, but he actually knew most of the other operas, too. Fortunately, he didn't sing them.

  The Big Banjo studied Greyboar intently. "Gwendolyn's brother, are you not?"

  Mutely, Greyboar nodded. The Big Banjo cocked his head a bit. "You wouldn't, by any chance, have any of your sister's vocal talent?"

  I choked. Greyboar grinned. The Big Banjo sighed.

  "Pity," he mused. "I've written the most splendid opera especially for her voice. She sang a few arias from it, when she and that marvelous Benvenuti fellow arrived in the Mutt some time ago. Months and months, it's been now."

  He shook his head ruefully. "But—you know Gwendolyn! She spurned all my pleas. Said she'd only return to singing after the revolution triumphed."

  Greyboar wasn't grinning anymore. I looked down at the parquet floor. Scowling fiercely, I imagine. Of all my memories of Gwendolyn, her voice probably hit the sorest spot.

  Especially when she sang. No woman in the world had a voice like Gwendolyn's. Sure as hell not when she was cutting loose with it. A contralto profundo, you could call it—and strong enough to shake whole buildings.

  When we were kids, we always figured she'd wind up in the opera house. That was our dream, actually. I'd be her manager and Greyboar'd be her bodyguard. Then—

  Sigh. Then one of the pogroms hit. A family of dwarves scurried into our ramshackle little house, begging for mercy and shelter. There was a small mob pounding on their heels, led by a handful of monks.

  Greyboar and I hesitated, but Gwendolyn was out the door with her cleaver before the dwarves got more than two sentences out. Sixteen years old, she was then, but she'd already reached her full size. The monk at the head of the mob got his head split before he screeched two words out. "Split," as in pumpkin.

  Then the rest of the mob started swarming Gwendolyn, and the issue of hesitation was a moot point. By the time it was all over, what was left of the mob was in what they call "full retreat." Between them, Greyboar and Gwendolyn must have mangled a good dozen, including all four of the monks. I did for a couple of the pogromists myself. Small as I was, even at that age I knew how to use a knife in close quarters better than just about anybody except maybe your best muggers.

  Sigh. That's when all our plans went right off the cliff. Because Gwendolyn wasn't satisfied with just rescuing the dwarves. She insisted on escorting them to the nearest refuge, and before you knew it she was involved with the Underground Railroad herself, and before she knew it she'd joined up with the revolution and The Roach, and before you knew it—

  Sigh.

  Fortunately, an interruption arrived to break the mood of the moment.

  "The heart of the Flankn, is The Trough," came a new voice. It was the Grump, extending his hand.

  "I am also acquainted with the gentlemen," he said, "an acquaintance I shall enjoy renewing. It's the one thing I still regret about leaving my hometown. Best ale in the world, The Trough's."

  That lightened things up quite a bit, talking about ale instead of Gwendolyn. And, as it turned out, it really was a great evening once we got over our shyness at being in such august company.

  Really august company, you understand. Kings and nobles and bishops be damned, Greyboar and I sneered at 'em once we took their money. These were composers! Really pretty much like average blokes, once you got to know them. Especially Gramps. He was like everybody's favorite great-uncle that they wished they had but didn't.

  * * *

  The next morning we had a wonderful breakfast. The food was great, but what was even better was that we were serenaded by a small ensemble playing one of the Deadbeat's divertimenti. With the Deadbeat himself conducting! He seemed much the more pleasant individual in the morning. I decided to write off his gaucheries the night before to too much drink. A terrible thing, too much drink. I know whereof I speak.

  A leisurely pace, they had at the Abbey. It wasn't until midafternoon that Greyboar and I were summoned to Hildegard's study by one of the Sisters. The invitation didn't actually include Jenny and Angela, but they came along anyway and the Sister didn't make any objection.

  The Sister led the way, in and around and back and forth and up this flight of stairs and down that one and back around and back up another flight of stairs—etc., etc. I was totally lost after three minutes. It really was a huge place, the Abbey. Much bigger than it had looked the night before in the dark.

  But finally we were ushered into Hildegard's study. It was quite a room, that study. Enormous, it was, with floor-to-ceiling bookcases covering two of the walls. A great bay window on a third wall opened onto the Woods beyond. The last wall was only half a wall, because there was a huge alcove leading off, filled with what looked at first glance like tombstones, oddly enough. Then I saw small flames flickering amid the stones, and decided it must be some kind of peculiar fireplace.

  In the center of the room, just slightly off toward the window, was the Abbess' desk. Like everything else in the room, the desk was built to large scale. Beautiful desk, made of maple or cherry or some kind of fancy wood. Covered with papers.

  All this, however, I noticed later. Upon first entering the room, my attention was immediately drawn to the floor, which was completely covered by a thick rug.

  Most of which rug was not actually visible, because it was covered in turn with a gigantic snarl.

  Our eyes, you can well imagine, were focused entirely on the snarl. Well, my eyes and Greyboar's. Angela and Jenny were huddled behind us, pressed close. Although I'm sure they were peeking within seconds. Curiosity always overrode everything else with those two, even outright terror.

  The first time I'd ever seen a snarl close up it was lunging at me with its great maw agape, roaring and bellowing with rage. Bit sticky that would have been, even with Greyboar on the scene, if it hadn't turned out that the wizard Zulkeh's apprentice—a dwarf kid named Shelyid, I believe I've mentioned him before—was a snarl-friend. If you're wondering what a snarl-friend is, just stick around. You'll find out soon.

  This snarl presented quite a different image. It was lying there—she, to be precise, and it pays to be precise when it comes to snarls—for all the world like a tabby cat. Lying on her side, stretched out, dozing. When we came in, the monster awoke from her snooze, raised her head, eyed us once, yawned (horrible sight, that, really is), and went back to sleep.

  "Do come in!" exclaimed Hildegard, looking up from her desk. She was apparently in the middle of writing a letter.

  Greyboar coughed. "Wouldn't want to disturb the snarl, we wouldn't."

  "What?" asked Hildegard. She looked down at the monster. "Oh, nonsense, you won't disturb her. Quite difficult to disturb a snar
l, actually. Especially Rose, she's really the most even-tempered snarl I know."

  "I didn't think they could be tamed," I mumbled.

  The Abbess frowned. "Oh, dear. Gwendolyn told me you were a wicked little man, but I actually got the impression that you were quite bright. I must have misunderstood her."

  She pursed her lips, thinking, then continued:

  "Oh, well. I suppose it won't be much of a problem, having a moron of an agent present. Although I would have thought someone in your occupation would need more brains than a rabbit."

  The odd thing was, I wasn't even offended. The Abbess had this way of being offensive without—I don't quite know how to put it—without there being anything personal in it. You got the impression that the fact she thought you were an imbecile wasn't meant as a slur on you, it was just a fact that had to be taken into account.

  Offended or not, I set her straight. "I'm as smart as a whip!" I exclaimed. "And I know snarls can't be tamed. I should know! Didn't I have to listen to an endless lecture by the wizard Zulkeh on the subject? Complete with footnotes and bibliographic citations! It's just that—"

  She rose to her feet with excitement. "You've met Zulkeh? When? Where? I've been trying to reach him for months!"

  I shook my head, trying to clear it. The Abbess seemed to have this thing about going off on tangents. Greyboar answered her.

  "We met him in Prygg. Last year. After—well, after concluding some business with him there, we traveled together with him for part of our way back to New Sfinctr. He and his apprentice, Shelyid. We parted company with them in Blain. They were headed south to the Mutt."

  "The Mutt?" She frowned, then sighed. "Of course, of course. On his way to see Uncle Manya, I suppose."

  She wasn't dumb, that was sure. Tangent-brained, maybe, but not dumb.