by Eric Flint
Hildegard's face turned bright red. Her tongue popped out of her mouth. Yet—I swear it!—her face mostly conveyed deep satisfaction. She even stopped ringing the damned bell.
Ralph winced. "Boy, that's a horrible sight," he muttered.
But he was a tough fallen angel, I'll give him that. He took a deep breath and stared right at Hildegard's face, without even blinking. And there it remained for the next five minutes, Hildegard and Ralph staring each other down. The woman must have had lungs like a whale, I thought to myself.
After five minutes, Hildegard started ringing the bell again. Greyboar tightened up further. He was scowling fiercely, his great shoulder muscles bunching up, the tendons in his forearms like so many steel cables.
Hildegard's face was now bright purple. Her tongue was out a mile. Her eyes began protruding like a toad, except a toad's eyes don't show that horrid network of bright red veins in the eyeballs.
Ralph wasn't looking much better. His complexion was now gray. His horns were starting to curl in. His cloven hoofs were crossed. Drops of oily sweat were pouring down his bat's face.
Five more minutes went by. Hildegard rang the bell again. Greyboar went into overdrive. His shoulders hunched up like a bison's. The enormous muscles in his arms were rippling like a nest of anacondas. His own face was red, and sweat was pouring off his forehead.
I was flabbergasted. Only once before had I ever seen Greyboar throw this much into a choke. That was three years before, at the Barbarian Games, when he faced the Terrible Talon in the finals. Been champion at the Games for six years running, Greyboar had—ever since he started competing, in fact—and the Terrible Talon was the only one ever really gave him a run for the title. Would have made a great rematch. Of course, rematches are unheard of in the choking event.
Even the Terrible Talon hadn't lasted but a minute, once Greyboar hit his top speed. But Hildegard! After two minutes, the crazy woman rang the bell again! By now her face was black, her tongue was writhing like a huge worm, her eyes were almost completely out of their sockets.
Ralph quit. He looked almost dead himself. He started spasming, as if in a seizure. His hideous bat mouth opened, and out came—
The Harmony of the Spheres.
Yeah, Hildegard was right. Like nothing you've ever heard. It's impossible to describe, and you can't begin to imagine what sort of instruments could produce such music. But you can't mistake it.
All the composers were now scratching away furiously in their sheets, their expressions combining concentration and awe.
Hildegard wasn't just crazy, she was absolutely insane. She kept ringing the bell until the fallen angel had run through the entire score three times.
Finally, it was over. After the third run-through, Hildegard stopped ringing the bell and the Big Banjo, after glancing around quickly and seeing the nods of his fellow composers, told Greyboar to let go. The strangler staggered back and crouched over, his hands on his knees. He was gasping, for all the world like he was the one who had been choked. Hildegard leaned forward in the chair, rasping for breath, massaging her throat.
I think she recovered faster than Greyboar did. She certainly recovered faster than Ralph! The fallen angel was truly a fallen angel—flat on the floor, wailing like a lost soul. Don't blame him, really. Later, Hildegard told me the Old Geister was so furious with Ralph that he turned him into a devil, permanent. Probably worked out for the best, though—at least the guy got a pecker out of the deal.
"Marvelous!" cried Hildegard, when she got her voice. "Oh, just marvelous!"
She turned in her chair and bestowed a look of great approval on Greyboar.
"You were simply splendid, young man! Simply splendid! Gwendolyn was certainly right—I can't imagine a finer choke. There'll be quite an excellent bonus for your work today, you can be sure of it." My spirits perked right up, hearing that. "And I shall certainly not even think of hiring another chokester, should the occasion ever arise again." She frowned slightly. "Though I can't imagine it will. I am, after all, the Abbess of the Sisters of Tranquility."
She turned back and bestowed a very different look on Ralph.
"You may go," she announced haughtily. A split second later, the fallen angel vanished.
Chapter 15.
Aesthetics and Reason
After it was all over, Hildegard announced that she was
going to need a bit of rest before she did anything further. I didn't doubt that in the least. I was amazed that the woman was still alive, much less that she didn't really look any worse than someone who was completely exhausted.
So Greyboar and the girls and I spent the rest of the day, and the evening, enjoying an excellent meal and many hours of musical entertainment. And I'll say for the record that there are worse fates than being in a secluded Abbey with most of the world's greatest composers having what lowlife musicians call a "jam session."
* * *
The next morning, Hildegard summoned us into her office. After a day's rest and a night's sleep, she was looking quite a bit better. Although I noticed she was wearing a scarf around her neck, probably to hide the bruises.
As soon as we walked in, she greeted us with a big smile. So did the snarl on the rug.
I was so preoccupied with keeping an eye on the snarl that I didn't even notice the size of the casket that Hildegard hauled up from the floor and plunked on her desk. Not until she opened it and my eye caught a glint of the world's most splendid color. Gold.
All fretting thoughts on the subject of snarl smiles vanished, then. In fact, all thoughts of any kind vanished. I was awash in the bliss that mystics talk about, when they babble about pure emotion transcending the petty limits of apparent reality.
Of course, your mystics always shoot for what you might call the more ethereal emotions. But, me, I've always found that plain old everyday stuff works just fine. Greed, for instance.
To be sure, some feeble still-flickering portion of my intellect was probably fumbling around, trying to estimate the actual value contained in that casket. But I had no time for sordid arithmetic, at the moment. I was just awash in the transcendental experience of realizing:
We're rich! We're rich!
"As I promised," Hildegard said, "an excellent bonus for your excellent work."
Greyboar muttered something decorous, I believe. I tried to follow his example, but the words sort of got lost in the drool. Then Hildegard shoved the casket across the desk toward us and I, ah, advanced to take possession.
Greyboar claims I trampled the snarl on the way, but I think that's nonsense. I mean, wouldn't the beast have gobbled me or something? Greyboar claims the only reason it didn't was because I don't weigh enough to really disturb a dozing snarl, even stepping on its great hairy ugly flanks. In fact, he claims the snarl purred, as if my footsteps were like so many little petting strokes.
Could be, I dunno. I suppose things might have gotten stickier if I'd trampled the snarl on the way back, what with being weighted down with the casket. But I couldn't lift the thing, anyway, so Greyboar had to come and do the crude muscle work. He claims he carefully avoided the snarl in the doing. I dunno. Maybe. It's true that he doesn't have any of my sense for the true worth of things.
* * *
The next three days or so are pretty vague in my memory.
Greyboar and the girls were gone most of the time, down in the salon with the composers listening to music. Me? Ha! Sure, and I love music. But a man has to have a clear sense of priorities. Art and entertainment come a long way second after the really important stuff. Counting your money being pretty much at the top of the list.
It was so strenuous. A lot of people don't give much thought to the matter, you know, but a connosoor like myself understands that money-counting (when there's enough money) is an art form all in itself. You always want to start with racking up the total, of course. But after that, the variety of styles is almost endless. Stack coins by size, then by content of actual precious metal. Arran
ge them in a lot of short stacks, a few tall ones. Then, of course, the whole world of truly creative work opens up as you stack and restack them in the multitude of wondrous shapes available to the intelligent mind in full flower. Castles, pyramids, bridges, you name it.
One of the happier times of my life, it was. Even though I don't remember much of it because I was lost in such a state of artistic frenzy. But that's the way creative work always is, I'm told.
* * *
On the morning of the fifth day after our arrival, Greyboar interrupted my plans for the day with a most outlandish proposal.
"Hildegard said she wanted to talk to us today, Ignace. So let's go."
"Ridiculous!" I protested. "I'm halfway into my next creation! A perfect replica in coin stacks of the Leaning Tower at—"
No use. Greyboar picked me up, tucked me under his arm, and hauled me off to Hildegard's office. Once there, he plunked me into a seat.
I was so disgruntled that I didn't start following the conversation for a couple of minutes. When the words finally penetrated, however, I started really paying attention. And within a few seconds was participating in a lively fashion.
"Ridiculous!" I protested. "You're nuts, lady! Give up a perfectly respectable trade—pay's good, work's steady, what else do you ever get in this world?—for a lot of airy-fairy theological gobbledygook? Ridiculous!"
Hildegard responded to my sensible words with a look which combined amusement at the antics of a child with that "more in sorrow than in anger" business that amusement at childish antics always brings in its wake with a certain brand of individual. You know the type. Policemen, workshop owners, slave drivers. Parents. Abbesses.
"But my dear Ignace," she said, "surely you don't deny the existence of an immortal soul—"
"Surely I do!"
"—and even if you do, you must surely recognize the necessity of maintaining a proper psychological balance in life—"
"Surely I don't!"
"—and even if you don't, you can't deny the simple claims of morality."
I maintained a stubborn silence.
"Which, no matter how you slice it, are sorely tried by your current occupations as a serial murderer and his accomplice. Accomplice, did I say? It might be better to use the terms: aider and abetter; instigator; organizer of the mayhem; miniature butcher; diminutive monster; bantamweight fiend—oh, I could go on and on!"
"No doubt," rumbled Greyboar. "And it's not that I haven't got a certain sympathy for your argument, Abbess. It's a dirty rotten trade, no doubt about it. But—" He shrugged his massive shoulders. "The truth is, I don't believe in any of that stuff much more than Ignace does. And in the meantime the food's got to be put on the table. As he says, the pay's good and the work's steady and what else do you get in this world?"
For a moment, his eyes got a little hard. "Fine for you, Abbess—meaning no disrespect—to spout fine sentiments. You weren't working in a slaughterhouse from the time you were a kid, earning barely enough to keep alive just enough to stagger into the slaughterhouse again the next day." His eyes got very hard. "So screw it."
Hildegard sighed. "You are determined, I see. Very well. I simply thought I'd bring the subject up, for your consideration. My duty, you know, as a pious woman of the Church. Do please think about it, from time to time, will you? And you might want to consider that the world is teetering on the brink of a Great Change. Joe's return will surely trigger off a cataclysm. Interesting times, as the ancient curse goes. During which, of course, nothing is needed more than heroes."
Greyboar nodded. So did I, after a moment's sulk. No point in refusing to humor someone who's just paid you the biggest commission of your life, don't you know?
As soon as we got out of her office, of course, I said something sarcastic to Greyboar. But he didn't seem to be paying any attention to me. His mind was off in a cloud, somewhere.
Then he started muttering about the conflict between entropy and the search for lucre, and I realized right off that it was time to get out of that Abbey. Money-counting is a high art, sure. But you've got to keep your priorities straight. Unless you keep the money you've got no art to practice.
"We're outa here," I growled. "I'll tell the girls. Pack up your stuff. We're leaving right after lunch."
We left an hour later. Hrundig came along with us, but Olga and her daughters stayed behind. I guess the plan was that they'd wait until the hunt for them died down before making their way south to the Mutt. In the meantime, Hrundig was going back to New Sfinctr to see if there was anything he could do to help Benvenuti. Wasn't much chance of that, of course—not with Benny in the Durance Pile—but I guess Hrundig felt an obligation.
* * *
We had a little encounter on the road out of the Abbey which stiffened my determination to get clear of the place. We had to stand aside while the mailman came by on his rounds. The poor bastard was sweating like a dog, pushing a wheelbarrow in front of him. Whatever was in it must have weighed a ton. But I couldn't see because there was a tarpaulin of some kind covering the contents.
When he came abreast of us he set down the wheelbarrow and heaved a sigh of relief. Then, straightening up and massaging his back, he gave us a polite smile.
"G'd afternoon, folks."
"What's in the wheelbarrow?" asked Angela.
The mailman sighed. Then, grimacing ruefully, he flipped off the tarpaulin. Nestled in the barrow was another of those stone tablets. The letters inscribed on it were practically shooting jets of flame. The heat drove us back a step or two.
"Really pissed today, He is," announced the mailman. He pointed to the lettering. "I can't read but a bit of it, you'll understand, on account of the cipher is that Order of the Knights Rampant stuff. But I can recognize some phrases, well enough."
His finger moved about, indicating the most fiery clauses in the message " 'Fry in hell,' that one. This is 'eternal damnation.' Over there's a bit about the 'tortures of the netherworld.' The real big lettering at the bottom says: 'BURN, BITCH, BURN!' "
The mailman clucked his tongue. "He really shouldn't talk that way to an Abbess, I don't think. Even if He is God Himself."
I took Jenny and Angela by the arms and started hustling them down the road. "We're outa here!" I hissed.
* * *
By late afternoon we were off Abbey land and back into the coach which Oscar and the boys had kept ready. I started to relax. Left to himself, without an Abbess sticking her nonsensical notions into the works, Greyboar's silly fiddling with "ethical entropy" wouldn't lead to anything more annoying than laziness. Philosophy's a pain in the ass, sure, but left to its own devices it's really pretty harmless. It's when it starts getting filled with all that moral content business that it starts getting really dangerous.
So, at least, I told myself. But it was all a fool's paradise. For, just as Greyboar had said, the fact that a sane man doesn't recognize philosophy does not prevent philosophy from recognizing him.
Or, to put it in more mundane terms, you can play around with cause and effect all you want. Doesn't change the fact that effects are caused by causes, and that causes are caused by people fiddling around with the damned things. Then, as sure as effect follows cause, you're in that one-way tunnel to disaster that philosophers call "the logic of events." Which sensible fellows like me preferred to think of as "what happens when you mess around with stuff you had no business messing around with in the first place."
Or, as the wise man puts it: "If you want to stay out of trouble, don't trouble yourself."
But that's the way it works. One thing leads to another. A small problem turns into a big one, which turns into an unholy mess, which turns into a crisis, which leads to a disaster, which ends in calamity.
I'd seen it coming, sure enough. But what I didn't know, as we made our way back to New Sfinctr, was that the crisis was already upon us.
Chapter 16.
Twenty Bob on th'Lady!
We heard the story from Leuwen as soon
as we got back in
town. He was normally close-mouthed, Leuwen, like any good Flankn barkeep. For sure and certain, he didn't want to tell this particular story. Especially to Greyboar. Really especially, not to Greyboar. I could tell—the lack of color in his normally ruddy cheeks, the shifting eyes, the twitching fingers, the fat body poised for desperate flight, the sweat pouring down his face, the gulping voice. As the wizard Zulkeh would say, these are the classic symptoms of the bearer of sad tidings in the grip of le terreur d'étrangler en plein fureur, as described in the ancient writings of the great physician and scholar Hippocrates Sfondrati-Piccolomini.
Indeed, indeed, Greyboar was in a rare rage, and it was plain as day that Leuwen would rather be anywhere else at that moment than behind the bar at The Trough telling his story. He'd started off hemming and hawing, moaning about his bad memory and all, but after Greyboar told him, and I quote: "You either spill your guts or I do it for you," Leuwen got right into the tale like a bard of the olden days. Positively babbled, he did.
The Cat was in trouble. Big trouble.
It seemed—nobody really knew how it got started—that she'd attracted the admiration of the Goatmonk after we left for the Abbey. Probably ran into him while she was wandering around looking for Schrödinger. Anyway, his interest aroused, the Goatmonk had apparently followed her back to The Trough.
"The first I knew about it I swear the very first time was when the Goatmonk come in the door and Fergus said we had trouble and I looked and sure enough it was him and I swear he went right to the table where the Cat was sitting where she always does and I swear it all happened so fast I didn't have time to move and I swear I don't even know how he could've spotted her so quick because you know how dark it always is in this place that's how the customers like it and the lights were just as dark as always I swear on my mother's grave but he spotted her right away I don't know how he could have—"
Simple, that was. The Goatmonk had ELP—extra-lecherous perception. Every time he went off on one of his country outings the farmers hid their wives and daughters (and their mothers) in special bunkers. They'd try to hide the sheep, too. Father Venery, they called him.