The Philosophical Strangler

by Eric Flint

  McDoul was delighted with the plan. It appealed to his conceit, his much-vaunted (him doing all the vaunting, naturally) perception of the social graces. All of it except the barbering and shaving part, I should say, but his objections here became moot after Greyboar held him upside down and the girls went to work with their scissors. Then it didn't take long before the girls had a full set of Cardinal's robes made up, which fit McDoul like a glove.

  "Not bad," mused Greyboar, inspecting the final result. "Not bad at all. He'd never pass a close inspection, of course, but we're fortunate there that the Cardinal always favors a cowl. To hide his guilty face from the righteous, no doubt. As long as McDoul moves fast, he should be able to get past the guards." Then he scowled. "Unless he gets questioned and has to talk. That'll blow the whole thing, that gutter accent he's got."

  "I beg your pardon, my man?" came a strange, haughty voice from beneath the cowl. Greyboar was startled. I wasn't myself, I've heard McDoul impersonate the upper classes' accent before. He was really quite good at it—claimed it derived naturally from his unfailing perception of the social graces.

  "Say that again!" demanded Greyboar.

  McDoul drew himself up in the very image of Great Prelate of the Church, deeply offended.

  "I'll have to insist you abandon that tone, my good man! I'm a forgiving soul, but still!"

  "That's quite a trick," admitted Greyboar. "This just might really work."

  "And what do you plan for him to do?" I demanded. "Just waltz on into the Cardinal's mansion? And then what? Suppose he gets past the guards at the front door—then what's he supposed to do? Finish digging the tunnel to the Cat's cell and carry her out past the guards? And all this in three hours, which is maybe about the most time he'll have before the Cardinal finds out there's something fishy going on!"

  "Oh, he won't be alone," said Greyboar. "You and I'll be going in with him—and these other two thieves, as well."

  Erlic and G.J. did not seem overjoyed at the idea, and began to say so in no uncertain terms. But Greyboar stilled their protests with a look. Yeah, that look.

  "It'll work like a charm," he rumbled. "I figured it all out while Jenny and Angela were getting McDoul dressed up in his ecclesiastical finery. Oh, that reminds me—we'll be needing a couple of servant outfits for Erlic and Geronimo Jerry, and Inquisitors' robes for me and Ignace. And cut the Weasel's long oily ringlets while you're at it, will you, girls? They don't go with the image of your Cardinal's lackeys."

  No sooner said than done. Jenny and Angela started working on G.J. and the Weasel immediately, ignoring the latter's complaints.

  While they were working, Greyboar explained the plan. I was impressed, I've got to admit. I usually had to do the fine-filigreed plotting and such, but the strangler'd come up with as clever a scheme as I'd ever heard. Maybe all that philosophic rumination was oiling up the rusty gears in his head, after all. But more likely it was the image of the Cat wasting away in her cell which made him think better than he usually did.

  Not meaning to make fun of the great brute here, mind you! If I could bend steel bars with the fingers of one hand, I imagine I would have let my brain cells wither on the vine, too. But built like I am—well, let's just say that I had to rely on wit rather than brawn to get by. Helped having Greyboar for a client and friend, I admit.

  But I don't want to get too carried away, here. There was still a great gaping hole in his scheme, big enough to drive a wagon through. The Trio spotted it at once.

  "An' what'll th'Cardinal be doin' all this time?" demanded Erlic. His voice was sulky, caused, I've not a doubt, by the sight of his beloved oily ringlets lying on the floor. "E'en wit' th'four o' us t'do th'work, it'll still take th'day or two t'dig the Cat out. Vincent said th'tunnel t'her cell was still th'good ten feet away."

  Greyboar scratched his chin. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I still haven't figured that out. Somehow or other, we've got to get the Cardinal out of the picture for a couple of days. I'm stymied on that part of it, I admit."

  "Oh, that's easy!" exclaimed Jenny, smiling like a spring day.

  "We'll take care of the Cardinal!" shrieked Angela, clapping her hands with delight.

  I tried to cut them off, but it's hard to advance the cogent voice of reason when you've got Greyboar's hand the size of a dinner plate wrapped around your mouth.

  Smart girls, dammit. Didn't take the little rascals but three minutes to lay out a whole plan to keep the Cardinal out from under foot for as long as we needed. The plan was a good one, too. But I was thinking quick myself, so during the same three minutes I thought up two cogent lines of reasoning. Then I started mumbling as loud as I could.

  Jenny looked cross. "Oh, let him talk, Greyboar," she snapped. "We'll have to listen to it sooner or later, anyway."

  "Fusses over us like a hen over her chicks, Ignace does," added Angela. She glared at me.

  My voice back, I laid it out:

  "One. None of us'll be here to help you tie up the Cardinal. Even with him out of the way, we'll still be pressed for time. The rest of us will have to get into His So-Called Grace's mansion as soon as he leaves. You'll be alone with the monster! Helpless! At the mercy of his unbridled lust!"

  "Pooh," said Angela. Jenny stuck her tongue out at me. Then they refuted my argument.

  "He's just a wretched old man!" snapped Jenny.

  "Can't hardly walk!"

  "Think we can't handle him?"

  "Sure we're not big, but he's not so big either!"

  "And there's two of us!"

  "And we're real strong for our size!"

  "We really are! We're really healthy and energetic and full of vim and vigor!"

  Then, the unkindest cut of all, coming with a pair of evil grins:

  "You should know, Ignace," smirked Angela. "You never last more than an hour."

  "That's why we always start with you," cackled Jenny, "and finish with each other."

  I ignored the vulgar snickers coming from Greyboar and the Trio. Pressed on, undaunted, head bloodied but unbowed.

  "Two. Sure and the Cardinal'll come running with his tongue hanging out. But what do you think he'll do when he sees this house? Not his type of place, don't you know? Man of refined tastes, the Cardinal. Not that he'll have any objection to sating his fiendish lusts on the bodies of two working-class girls, mind you—especially young and pretty ones. In a pinch, the man'll hump a goat. It's true—he keeps one in his basement for the odd rainy day. I heard it once from one of his servants. But he'll certainly not agree to doing the dirty deed here, in the slums. He'll insist you come back to his mansion. And then we're in the soup!"

  Ha! That did it! Wiped those evil grins right off their faces.

  Until Greyboar put them back on, oh, maybe two seconds later.

  "No problem. We'll just have to rent some fancy townhouse in the hoity-toity part of town, that's all. Plenty of 'em available at the moment. Half the nobility's out taking the waters at the spas."

  "Know jest th'place," interjected McDoul.

  "Th'finest townhouse on its block," added Erlic. "Aye an' 'tis y'proper snooty block. Not far from th'Cardinal's mansion, to boot."

  "We've been casin' th'place," explained G.J.

  Another dagger in my heart!

  "But that'll cost money!" I fear my voice was shrill. "Lots of money!"

  "We've got lots of money," said Greyboar. "There was enough in Hildegard's bonus to take care of everything we need. I know you've got it stashed away. So now's the time to cough up."

  Well, I quit arguing at that point. As the wise man says: "You've got to know when to hold them, and when to fold them, and when you haven't even got enough to ante up."

  Chapter 20.

  A Plot Goes Awry

  The next day—after spending more money to buy myself fancy

  clothes and hire a fancy carriage, so I'd look like a gentleman—I rented the townhouse from the agent handling the property. Very nice place, too, the Trio were right about that. Bu
t it wouldn't have done them any good since the place was completely empty. It turned out the owners had moved to a country estate and the townhouse was up for sale. So that meant spending still more money to provide us with minimal furnishings, and two extra days to obtain it.

  But the lost time was probably a blessing in disguise. By the time the townhouse was ready, the costumes were done to perfection and McDoul had had plenty of time to perfect his accent. Angela was even able to remember enough of the Cardinal's voice to get McDoul to a fair imitation of it.

  Then we all got some sleep, so we'd be rested up for the long two days and nights ahead of us. Well, I didn't get a lot of sleep. Angela and Jenny saw to that. After they'd worn me out, they kissed me on both cheeks and said, "We love you too, Ignace." Then it was an odd thing, really. I cried for the first time since I was a kid. But I slept better than I had since then, too, even if it was only for a few hours.

  * * *

  The next morning, the game began.

  Not long after sunrise, Greyboar and the Trio and I were lurking in the bushes next to the Cardinal's mansion. Oddly enough for someone with his vices, Fornacaese was one of those weird early-to-bed-and-early-to-rise types. Was but a moment later that the Great Man of the Cloth emerged from his mansion. Eager to spend the day doing the Lord's work, no doubt. But he hadn't taken three steps before Jenny and Angela popped up from somewhere, calling out to him.

  They really looked stunning, there wasn't any two ways about it. Somehow they'd designed their dresses so they conveyed an impossible combination of demure innocence and barely repressed lust. Wasn't two seconds after they came up to the Cardinal that His Grace's tongue was hanging out.

  We could hear their voices as clear as bells.

  "Oh, Your Grace, we're in such a horrible situation," moaned Jenny.

  "We thought—it's forward of us, we know it is, you being such a great holy man and all, but—" This from Angela.

  "Speak, my children," slavered the Cardinal. "Unburden your troubled souls."

  "Well, you see, our parents have gone off to the spa."

  "Left us all alone."

  "Instructed us to behave properly."

  "But we're troubled by the devils."

  "They come to us in our dreams."

  "Filling us with—with—with—"

  "Speak, children, speak!" I swear, even from where I was hiding I could see the foam on his lips.

  "—with thoughts of lust and depravity!" moaned Jenny.

  "So we were wondering, Your Grace," murmured Angela sweetly, "if you might come to our house and pray for us today—and maybe even through the night."

  "We don't live far," Jenny hastened to add. "Just a three-minute walk."

  Well, to sum it up, the Cardinal agreed that he would meet them at their house in a quarter of an hour. Anything to save two young and innocent souls, don't you know?

  Jenny and Angela left, sauntering down the street. The Cardinal raced into his mansion. Practically bowled over the doorman on the way in. Wasn't but five minutes later that he came charging back out—and this time he did bowl over the doorman. And there he went, scuttling down the street like a crab, a holy book in one hand and two bottles of wine in the other.

  We waited until he disappeared around the corner before we made our move. Then we went up to the front door. McDoul was in the fore, dressed identically to the Cardinal. Greyboar and I came behind, clothed in the red robes of the Inquisition. Erlic and G.J. brought up the rear, dressed like servants, bearing on their shoulders an enormous chest. They were huffing and puffing as if the chest were full of who knew what, instead of being almost empty.

  The door opened. McDoul pushed his way in, with Greyboar right behind so as to pin the doorman against the wall with his shoulder.

  "Your Grace!" gasped the doorman. "But—but—you just left but a moment ago!"

  "Knave!" hissed McDoul, his face hidden in the cowl. "How long have you been in my service now?"

  "Six years, Your Grace."

  "And you could be fooled by that impostor? He's my double, you idiot!"

  The doorman's jaw was agape. "Your double, Your Grace?"

  "Of course, my double! The enemies of the Church must be kept off guard! Imbecile!"

  McDoul's act was pretty much wasted. Because Greyboar had transfixed the doorman with The Stare, and after that the poor man was lost. McDoul hissed some vague nonsense about dark plots and foul machinations, and instructed the doorman to forget everything he'd just seen. By that point, I think the fellow had forgotten his own name.

  Then McDoul pointed to Erlic and G.J. "Show these varlets to my bedchamber," he hissed. And to them, he hissed: "Drop that chest and you'll answer to the Inquisition!"

  So the doorman led us to the bedchamber. The man's wits were so addled that it never occurred to him to wonder why the Cardinal couldn't lead the way to his own bedchamber. Answer to that, of course, is that we had no idea where it was. That mansion was gigantic. It was nestled up against the Pile, the great ugly crag which overlooks New Sfinctr and most of whose interior is filled with the cells and tunnels of Grotum's most notorious dungeon. As it turned out, the bedchamber was all the way in the back, on the third floor, carved right into the stone of the Pile itself. Figured.

  The whole thing really went as smoothly as you could ask. Of course, we must have run into a dozen other servants along the way. But they took one look at the terrified expression on the face of the doorman and disappeared in a flash. Not known for his kindly ways, the Cardinal wasn't. And it was as clear as daylight that every lackey in the place had long ago memorized the most profound of the sayings of the wise man: "Don't ask. Just don't."

  So there we were, at last. In the Cardinal's bedchamber. McDoul hissed some final instructions to the doorman, to the effect that he would be occupied for some time with urgent business of the Inquisition. He did not want to be disturbed.

  Disturbing the Cardinal, clearly enough, was the last thing the doorman intended to do. He was gone in a flash.

  "All right, let's get to work," said Greyboar. He watched Erlic and G.J. slowly lowering the chest, grunting and groaning.

  "Oh, cut out the act!" snapped the strangler.

  "What act?" demanded the Weasel.

  "Great crate weighs th'ton," gasped G.J.

  "Filled as it is wit' th'needed supplies for our labor," explained Erlic. And so saying, he opened the chest.

  Well, the plan had called for an empty chest, except for two shovels, a pick, and a lantern. The tools were there, all right. But the rest of the chest was full of ale pots.

  Greyboar was not pleased, but he let it go after I pointed out that the Trio hadn't ever been known to do anything, not even steal, until they were full of ale. So we started inspecting the bedchamber, looking for the entrance to the tunnel which the Cardinal had been digging to the Cat's cell.

  Didn't take us long to find it. The entrance was concealed in the floor of a closet. We lifted the trapdoor. A ladder led down to a landing below. Bringing the digging tools and the lantern, we climbed down, Greyboar leading the way.

  And ran right into an unexpected complication. It was obvious, in retrospect. In fact, we all felt like total idiots.

  Who had been digging the Cardinal's tunnel? Not the Cardinal himself—not the great prelate of the Church! No, he'd gotten hold of three dwarves somewhere, and made them do the work. And there we found them, chained up to the wall of the tunnel.

  The poor little guys were scared out of their wits. But once they understood we weren't the Cardinal's men, they were ecstatic. They'd always known the Cardinal would have them killed after they finished the work, so they'd gone as slowly as they could. That had cost them plenty of whippings, but a whipping's better than the Big Cut.

  Now they pleaded with us to let them escape. The Trio started making noises to the effect that "dead men tell no tales—dead dwarves neither." But one glare from Greyboar was enough to scotch that idea. The truth is, Greyboar had a
soft spot in his heart for dwarves ever since he met Zulkeh's apprentice, the dwarf Shelyid. Actually, I'll admit to the same soft spot. Really a great kid, Shelyid. He was a little on the lippy side when we first met, but after I slapped him down he turned out all right. He and I got to be pretty good friends, actually. Greyboar and I spent quite a bit of time with the wizard and his apprentice on our way back from Prygg. Greyboar hung around the wizard, naturally, talking about who-knows-what philosophical nonsense. Me, I found Shelyid's company much more congenial.

  So doing away with the dwarves was ruled out. On the other hand, we couldn't just let them go either. They'd be bound to raise the alarm trying to sneak out of the mansion. In the end, we struck a deal with them. If they'd help us dig out the Cat, we'd figure out some way to take them with us when we escaped.

  Then, as it turned out, they did all the digging. Greyboar offered to help, but the dwarves turned him down.

  "Shoulders like yours," explained one of them—Eddie, his name was—"be good for breaking rocks out in the open, where you've got room to swing a hammer. But this here's close-in work, like. You'd just get in the way."

  Then Greyboar offered my help, and that of the Trio. But the dwarves turned him down again.

  "By the looks of 'em," sniffed another—Lester, he was called; the last one, for the record, was named Frank—"they haven't done an honest day's work between 'em in the last five years."

  I let it go, but the Trio were deeply insulted.

  " 'Aven't never done no 'onest day's work," groused the Weasel.

  "Aye an' do we look like idiots?" demanded G.J., red in the face.

  "Not since we's little 'uns, anyhow," grumbled McDoul. "Not since we's sprung usselfs from th'sweatshop, after knifin' the o'erseer."

  In the event, finding the dwarves turned out to be a blessing. Now that they were motivated to work as fast as possible, instead of stalling, they cut right through the rock. Work like moles underground, dwarves could. Not surprising, really, most of them did a stint in the mines sometime in their lives. It was one of the few jobs people would give to dwarves. And while the work was brutal, at least the poor little bastards didn't have to worry about pogroms as long as they were underground. Your average lynch mob had a fear of hunting dwarves down there. The tricky little devils had this way of making the tunnels real narrow. Not to mention the cave-ins that always seemed to inflict the few vigilantes who were stupid enough (or drunk enough) to chase dwarves below the surface.