The Philosophical Strangler

by Eric Flint

  Sweet, isn't it?

  Sure, taking the Guide's Route gives you immunity from the perils of the Inferno, even from the CEO himself. But is it worth it? Just to avoid having to battle a million demons and devils and whatnot?

  Think so?

  Here, then! See if this changes your mind . . .

  * * *

  And then we started down a fourth abyss,

  making our way along the dismal slope

  where all the evil of the world is dumped.

  Along the slope, strewn about like boulders,

  rested a multitude of condemned ones,

  shackled to heavy chairs, their mouths agape.

  About them, clutching horrible iron

  implements of fell and fearsome design,

  capered horned devils and barb-tailed imps.

  "This place is the doom reserved for dentists,"

  explained the wise young Virge. My own dentist,

  the swine, moans somewhere here.

  "But we cannot tarry, though it tempts me.

  We must press on." And so saying, our guide

  Hastened his steps and led us ever down.

  * * *

  Enough!

  Wittgenstein was right. The poetry was that bad. Circle after circle of it. On and on, just like that. A pimply-faced adolescent's Guide to the Infernal Regions.

  We couldn't do anything about it, either. That was the downside of using Zulkeh's clever little "alternate route." Once you go that way, you have to follow what the little snotnose brat who led us called the "Guide's Rules."

  I whined at Zulkeh, but the wizard confirmed the bad news.

  " 'Tis inescapable, I fear," he stated gloomily. "On this, Ignace, whatever may be their other points of contention, all the savants agree. I refer you in particular to the universally acknowledged masterwork of the literature, Alighieri Sfondrati-Piccolomini's Once is Enough! Whomsoever enters the Infernal Regions by utilizing the Guide's Route must agree to the Guide's Rules."

  And that's that. So don't ask me to describe what we passed through on our way down to meet the CEO of the Infernal Regions. I can't do it. Not unless you want more of that crap which "the wise young Virge" calls "terser reamer" or something like that.

  It doesn't get any better, either, not until we get past the interview—if you'll allow me to use the term—with the Chief Evildoer himself. (And, yeah, that came as news to me too. I'd sort of assumed we'd be sneaking past him or something. Turns out if you take the Guide's Route you can't. Marvelous, huh? Imagine my reaction at the time! That damned Zulkeh! Never trust a mage!)

  Anyway, after what seemed an endless time listening to "the wise young" Snotnose droning on and on, we finally debouched onto the lowest level. It's not the ninth, by the way—that's a myth started by that Alighieri fellow in order to get tenure. The truth is, he had no more idea than we did which level it is, but I guess he couldn't very well put that in his doctoral dissertation. The Infernal Regions don't follow the same numbering rules which the rest of the universe does. Something to do with Chaos, the way I understand it.

  You can imagine my sigh of relief.

  Sigh. No dice. Once you buy into the Guide's Rules you're stuck with them, even after the Guide himself bows out of the picture. Which "the wise young Virge" did as soon as the CEO loomed into sight. You can say what you want about the Prince of Darkness, but he ain't all bad. At least he doesn't tolerate lippy teenagers.

  So "the wise young Virge" scuttled away and I thought we were home free. Not a chance. The next thing I knew, the whole area was resounding with the chatter of about a jillion imps, all prattling away in what the bedamned scholars call a "classical chorus."

  * * *

  I groaned. Hrundig grinned.

  "You think this is bad?

  You ought to see the

  Guide's Rules in my homeland's

  version of eternal damnation."

  I groaned again.

  Since you might be interested—heh—and since I'm a firm believer in the wise man's saw that "misery conscripts company," here's what happened then:

  THE CHORUS OF IMPS: They come! They come!

  Arrivistes!

  CEO OF THE INFERNAL Whence come ye, mortals?

  REGIONS: And by whose leave?

  ZULKEH OF GOIMR, From above, Foul One.

  PHYSICIAN: And our leave is sufficient,

  The will of my own intellect.

  CEO OF THE INFERNAL For what purpose then?

  REGIONS: And by whose fell design?

  THE CHORUS OF IMPS: By whose fell design?

  Speak! Speak!

  ZULKEH OF GOIMR, For the purpose of discovering

  PHYSICIAN: All secrets of Joetry.

  As for the design,

  From far Pryggia it comes,

  Dispatched by Magrit's hand,

  Whose withered veins and

  Talons held the might to cast

  Her mission unto decrepit

  Goimr, tumored city of

  Once-proud kings,

  Now overthrown, their dynasty

  Brought to ruination,

  Whose wretched hovels huddle

  By the very woods whose shade

  Once dappled fair Gwendolyn,

  The long hours she strode,

  Her keen eyes searching

  Every shadow for sign of peril

  Whilst her mind wandered,

  Pondering the newfound love

  Discovered in the unexpected

  Form of the hated intruder

  From haughty imperial Ozar.

  THE CHORUS OF IMPS: Cut to the chase!

  Cut to the chase!

  ZULKEH OF GOIMR, Now the bone fought over by

  PHYSICIAN: Miscreants mad and military

  Who sought in vain to

  Forestall the shrewd acumen

  Of the mage Zulkeh,

  That is myself, who, now

  Apprised of Magrit's vision,

  Seeks to wrest from all

  Powers, be they high or low

  The truth concerning the fell

  Dream of the dotard king.

  THE CHORUS OF IMPS: Get to the point!

  Get to the point!

  ZULKEH OF GOIMR, Bah! Impudent imps!

  PHYSICIAN: Foul Vizier of Vileness!

  I demand the truth, all

  That is known in Hell

  Anent the ancient Joe,

  Who invented everything.

  CEO OF THE INFERNAL Not a chance, Zulkeh.

  REGIONS:

  THE CHORUS OF IMPS: What a clown!

  What a clown!

  ZULKEH OF GOIMR, Bah! Impudent archdevil!

  PHYSICIAN: Desist, Lord of Lies.

  I am impatient, for even as

  I pontificate in epic meter,

  Time wanes.

  CEO OF THE INFERNAL I'm dying here. Dying!

  REGIONS: Of laughter. Not a chance,

  Zulkeh of Goimr. Ask me

  Something serious.

  ZULKEH OF GOIMR, Since you insist!

  PHYSICIAN: Where is fair Gwendolyn's

  Former squeeze?

  THE CHORUS OF IMPS: Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!

  Hee! Hee! Hee!

  CEO OF THE INFERNAL Gasp! Choke! Wheeze!

  REGIONS: Gigglegigglegiggle.

  He's in Even Worse Hands

  Than me! Gasp! Choke!

  Thattaway.

  * * *

  So off we went, before the CEO of the Infernal Regions and his minions could stop laughing. True, he'd pointed us to the door himself, so by all rights he could hardly object to our following his directions. But they don't call him the Archdevil for nothing.

  According to the Guide's Rules, I can't describe the door itself which led to the Place Even Worse Than Hell, but the inscription over it is within the guidelines:

  Abandon All Hope

  Ye Who Enter Here

  And This Time We're Not Kidding

  * * *

  I was so reliev
ed when the door closed behind us that I practically collapsed. I paid no attention to my surroundings. Some kind of huge grotto, glittering with light from what seemed like thousands of veins of peculiar minerals, glowing from within.

  "Wonder what faces us next?" mused Greyboar.

  "Don't care!" I gasped. "At least it'll come at us in prose!"

  Chapter 27.

  Moments, High and Low

  But my gasping didn't last for long. Not two seconds later I

  was right in the wizard's face. Clutching the lapels of his sorcerer's robe in my hands and shaking him the way a terrier shakes a rat. Well. Small terrier; big rat. The terrier actually does most of the moving around part.

  "What's the big idea, Zulkeh?" I demanded. "What are you doing getting into a wrangle with the CEO of the Infernal Regions—the Archdevil himself!—over this damned Joe business? You were just supposed to ask him about Benny!"

  Oh, I was hot—hot.

  "Bad enough we get hauled down here in the first place! For any reason! But at least Gwendolyn's family so we got that excuse!" I took the time here to bestow a share of my furious glare on her. "Such as it is. Screwy, you ask me, chasing after an ex-boyfriend."

  Gwendolyn glared back. Normally, that would have shut me up—she's such a scary woman—but not this time.

  Hot—hot.

  "That damned Joe business! I'm sick of it! Want no part of it! None, d'you hear? None!"

  Alas, browbeating a wizard is easier said than done. Before I'd even finished, Zulkeh was spluttering his own outrage.

  "Do I hear me aright? Is this midget jackanapes presuming to question me on the pursuit of my science?" Spittle, spittle. "Outrage! Impudence!"

  Fortunately or otherwise, Greyboar interposed himself between us. It was so undignified. Greyboar's version of "interposing himself" involves scruffs of the neck and large hands and sundry hoisting operations. I leave the coarse details to the imagination.

  I tried to keep hollering even suspended in midair—so did the wizard—but Greyboar gave us both a little shake and that pretty much brought silence. Hard to holler when your teeth are clattering together.

  "Shuddup," he growled, after he set us down. "Both of you."

  To add insult to injury, Greyboar's ensuing reproof was all aimed at me.

  "And you're supposed to be the brains of the outfit!" he snorted. "What in the world did you think Zulkeh was doing on this little expedition, numbskull? You think the mage came along because he gives two fiddles about a revolutionary agitator's artist ex-boyfriend?"

  "Preposterous!" spoke the mage. "Offensive—nay, insulting! Would any scholar allow himself to be diverted from his science for such a paltry and mundane purpose? Much less such a savant as myself?"

  I goggled at him. Then, cursed myself.

  What an idiot I was! Of course Zulkeh wouldn't have come along on this insane expedition for the normal reasons that grip your workaday lunatic. Ever since he decided that the weird dream of a now-dead king of Goimr portended some awful and unknown disaster for civilization, he's been a monomaniac about that damned quest of his. And since he was a maniac to begin with, you can just imagine what he was like once he got rolling.

  That realization brought another. I swiveled and bestowed my glare on Magrit.

  "And what about you?" I demanded. "What's your angle on this thing?" Here, a big sneer. "And don't bother telling me that you're doing this as a favor to Gwendolyn. You wouldn't cross the street to piss on a man dying of thirst unless he paid you in solid coin or—"

  I stumbled to a halt. Magrit grinned. Wittgenstein spun around on her shoulder and mooned me. Disgusting, really, the way a salamander moons.

  "What a dimwit," snickered the vile little creature. "Good thing he's built so low to the ground. Any taller, and the drop or two of blood which reaches his brain wouldn't be enough to keep him from passing out."

  "You're swapping favors with her," I croaked. "You help Gwendolyn find her ex-squeeze and she owes you."

  Magrit kept grinning. Wittgenstein snickered again. I could feel the emptiness of eternal destiny yawning wider and wider beneath my feet.

  "And you count favors like a miser counts pennies. She owes you, you'll insist she pay you back. With a favor. And since Gwendolyn's in no position to do anything for you herself—she's on the run from every porker in Grotum—she'll have to put the screws on her brother—"

  Light-headed now with growing horror, I stared at Greyboar. Even since we'd started on this insane trek, Greyboar had spent most of his time with his sister. In a tête-à-tête, I believe the sophisticated crowd calls it. I hadn't thought about it much, at the time. Sibling reconciliation, you know. Slobbering sentimental stuff; babble, babble, babble.

  "Tell me it isn't true," I whispered.

  Greyboar cleared his throat. "Ah. Well. Actually, Ignace . . ."

  At that point, I believe I wailed. Not sure. My memory gets a little fuzzy. Sheer terror, I'm told, will do that to a man.

  * * *

  Then, it got worse. My wail was cut off by a hand placed over my mouth. Two hands, actually. Not Greyboar's dinner-plate mitts, but two little hands belonging to Jenny and Angela.

  One from each. They're not hard to distinguish between. Angela's hands are small, well-shaped and beautiful. Jenny's hands are exactly the same, except her fingers are longer. I could tell them apart in my sleep. I have, actually, not to put too fine a point on it. And if that comes across as a lecher's remark, think again. It's got nothing to do with that. They comfort me differently, that's all. Can't explain how, exactly, but they do.

  I love those hands. Just as I love the faces that were staring at me.

  Um. Squinting at me, to be precise. As in: exasperation, discontent, contumely. That sort of thing.

  With ever-growing shock, I realized that Jenny and Angela had also been spending a lot of time with Greyboar and Gwendolyn since the journey began. Tête-à-quatratête, so to speak.

  "We think it's a great idea," snapped Jenny. "You would too if you ever paid any attention to what we told you about what's happening to the dwarves."

  Angela sneered. "Ignace? Pay attention to anything in the world except what's going to make him a few quid? Ha!"

  They were exceedingly disgruntled, now. I could tell. I tried to mumble something but the hands on my mouth just tightened down.

  "Oughta cut him off for good, we should," growled Jenny. "Him and his tight fist for a heart. Put him on a real budget."

  Angela snickered. "Great austerities. Be good for the midget. His heart wouldn't be the only thing shrunk down to a walnut."

  To add insult to injury, Zulkeh added his advice.

  "Splendid idea! A stratagem worthy of the ancients! Should you need guidance, damsels of dubious virtue, I shall be delighted to provided you with a copy of the classic treatise. Lysistrata Sfondrati-Piccolomini's seminal—if you will pardon the expression—Do It Yourself, Big Shot; You're a Man, Aren't You?"

  By now, I suspect I was whimpering. Jenny's frown got crosser still.

  Angela's was even worse. "We are going to rescue the dwarves at Operation Nibelung. One of these days, when the time's right. Magrit's still figuring out the plan. Greyboar's already agreed, and so have we. So's the Cat, for that matter."

  My eyes rolled wildly in the direction of the Cat. The woman was standing not too far away, giving me her own cold-eyed stare.

  "Et tu?" I managed to mumble through the fingers.

  The Cat shrugged. "Sure. Why not? And Gwendolyn says Schrödinger may be there."

  "Bastard's one of the 'top scientists,' according to one rumor," Gwendolyn snarled.

  It was hopeless. Everybody was against me. An outcast in my own land, you might say.

  * * *

  So I did the only rational thing, of course. I capitulated.

  "Okay," I mumbled. "I'll help. When the time comes."

  Jenny and Angela's squints were now so suspicious that their eyes were mere slits. But they move
d their hands off my mouth.

  "S'true!" I protested. "Give you my word."

  Squints. Squints.

  Support came from an unexpected quarter. Gwendolyn, to my surprise.

  "That's good enough, girls," she rumbled. (Oh, yeah. Gwendolyn talks in a rumble just like her brother. Different tone, of course. Contralto profundo, you might call it. Her voice is just like she is: beautiful in a way that's hard to describe. Think of a very feminine avalanche.)

  "Good enough," she repeated. Gwendolyn moved up alongside Jenny and Angela. "He's a little scoundrel, true—greedy as a sponge and with about as much concern for moral standards. But he's no liar. Never has been."

  I stared up at Gwendolyn. Her hawk face loomed over me. A lot like Greyboar's, that face. She's got the same dark complexion, same black eyes, same kinky mass of hair—except hers is a glorious mane instead of a bramble—same raptor beak of a nose. How she manages to look gorgeous instead of just scary is a mystery to me, but she does. And look scary at the same time.

  Suddenly, Gwendolyn's face burst into a smile. Her smile, which is not quite like anything else in the world. Not a whole lot of warmth in it, mind you. Gwendolyn's not what you'd call the sweet-and-sentimental type. But it's such a real thing.

  I found myself getting choked up. It had been so many years since I'd seen that smile. It was my first memory of Gwendolyn. My first memory of either one of them, actually, because it was Gwendolyn who had introduced me to Greyboar.

  Happened way back when I was a kid, growing up in one of the slums near the Flankn. Six years old, maybe seven. I'd gotten cornered in an alley by half a dozen bigger kids. Bunch of sullen snots, if you know what I mean. Was it my fault they couldn't take a joke?

  Really a humorless lot, no doubt about it. Had chains and clubs and everything. But just when things were looking dicey they started flying every whichaway. The ones who didn't land on their asses took off running like rabbits. And the next thing I knew this really big girl was smiling down at me.

  "Hiya, shrimp," she'd said. "I thought it was a pretty good wisecrack, myself. But you might want to work on your timing."