The Philosophical Strangler

by Eric Flint

  "That's not how it happened!" groused the fallen angel. "And I'm not Harry, anyway. He works midnight shift. I'm Jack."

  "Which one?" demanded the mage. "The Jack mentioned in Exasperations II? Or the Jack—"

  "Never mind!" snapped the fallen angel. "Just Jack!"

  I suspected he was probably the one in Exasperations II, judging from the exasperated way he scratched two more lines through Zulkeh's name. "Petition denied! And don't bother protesting, mage! Your reputation is a byword and a hissing. You're a sinner, sure, but you've no intentions at all of giving up your wicked quest. You know it as well as I do."

  "Certainly not!" exclaimed Zulkeh. "The needs of science—"

  "Next!" shrilled Jack-the-fallen-angel. "Move aside, Zulkeh! You're blocking the line."

  Zulkeh might have kept arguing, but Gwendolyn was next and she just picked him up under the armpits and set him off to one side, as easily as a normal woman would have moved a toddler.

  "I'm Gwendolyn Greyboar," she announced, "and I'm also requesting—"

  "Petition denied! Petition denied!" chorused the saints.

  Jack must have been really exasperated now, because by the time he finished writing in Gwendolyn's name and crossing it off there was nothing left in the ledger but a huge blob of ink.

  "Is this some kind of joke?" he shrilled petulantly. "The second-most-notorious revolutionist in Grotum claiming she's mending her wicked ways and giving up all riotous agitation 'gainst lawful authority?"

  "I said no such thing," growled Gwendolyn. "But I still want—"

  "Step aside! Step aside!"

  Well, nobody except Greyboar could have moved Gwendolyn aside by picking her up, and Greyboar—the last faint trace of sanity, here—was still loitering in the rear of the line with me and Hrundig.

  Then my heart seized, because Jenny and Angela were pushing their way past Gwendolyn eagerly.

  "Us! Us!" they cried. "Jenny and Angela! We wanna go too!"

  Jack-the-fallen-angel squinted at them suspiciously. Then, slowly wrote their names into the ledger and swiveled his head to look at the line of saints. The saints, for their part, were studying Angela and Jenny intently.

  My heart was frozen, I swear it was. Not beating at all. Then—

  "Petition denied! Petition denied!"

  I could breathe again. Whatever else happened, my girls weren't going into that—that thing.

  "Why?" demanded Jenny. "Yeah—why?" echoed Angela. In a rush, together: "We swear to mend our wicked ways, honest!"

  Jack sneered. "So what? The ways aren't wicked enough in the first place."

  "Are too!" shrieked Jenny. "We're dykes and everything!" Angela cocked her head and gave me the eye. "Even worse than that," she snickered. "Fallen dykes."

  Jack's sneer never even wavered. "Big deal. You think the Lord Almighty loses sleep over stuff like that?"

  Jenny and Angela's mouths dropped. "We've been denounced by priests and monks, even," whined Angela. "Lots of times," added Jenny.

  Jack rolled his eyes and cast a sour look at the saints. The saints started cackling. Weird sound, they made, as dried up and shriveled-looking as they were.

  "Priests and monks," giggled one. "Leave it to a bunch of sophomores!"

  "Gotta make allowances," wheezed the one next to him. "Bigotry 101 and Introductory Prejudice really doesn't prepare you for postgraduate work."

  Jack looked bored. "Make an official Sorting, would you? I'd like to get to lunch before they close the cafeteria."

  "Insufficient sin! Insufficient sin!" intoned the saints. Before they'd even finished, Jack had scratched out their names. "Denied," he droned. "Next."

  Jenny and Angela stumbled away, looking both shocked and upset. They stared at me, faces pale. I fell in love with them all over again, and knew it was forever and ever. Which, given my prospects at the moment, wasn't too far off.

  Then Greyboar nudged me and I took a breath. Then another one.

  There was still a last gasp. I nudged Magrit, standing at my side. "How's about you?"

  She snorted. "Me? I ain't getting anywhere near that thing. This is as far as I go, Ignace. That was my deal with Gwendolyn."

  "And I'm with her, runt," hissed Wittgenstein.

  I sighed and started forward. But Hrundig held me back.

  "Wait, Ignace. Let me go first. I may need a bit of help here."

  I was willing enough. Hrundig stepped up to the table and gave his name. Jack scribbled it in and turned, once again, to the saints.

  This time, the saints spent more than a second or two pondering the matter. A full minute, maybe. Before:

  "Petition denied! Petition denied!" They didn't wait for Hrundig to demand an explanation before giving it: "Excessive prior atonement! Preexisting condition of soul-searching and mortification!"

  Hrundig must have been expecting it, though, judging by the cold little smile on his face. And I guess he must have gotten some advance coaching from Zulkeh, because he immediately demanded the right to give what he called "non-extenuating circumstances."

  Now Jack got a really sour look on his face. But apparently Hrundig was following the red tape properly, because the fallen angel removed the pen from the ledger and muttered: "Okay. Let's hear it."

  Hrundig squared his shoulders, clasped his hands behind his back, and started bellowing:

  "My name is Hrundig Fjalkerson

  And I am accounted the fiercest berserk

  Of my district. One day I met

  Wart Giddle at the river crossing

  And he refused to give me passage

  So I took out my axe and killed him.

  Then his brother Thord Herjolfson

  Who is the son of Herjolf Kollson

  Who was the brother of Hallgerd who

  Was married to Hoskuld the Fat

  Took umbrage. He had many thralls and

  Neighbors who owned lots of pigs."

  "And horses!" I shouted. "Don't forget the horses! And the sheep!"

  "And lots of horses and sheep too.

  One horse was called Red-foot Swiftsure

  And she was . . ."

  Well, this went on for some time, since Hrundig took care to specify by name all the offspring he sired on Fat Hoskuld's mares and ewes and sows until the saints started wailing that Hrundig was stalling and so Hrundig veered back on to his other sins:

  "So I smote Fat Hoskuld in the eyeball

  With my spear which got stuck in the socket

  So I drew my sword and smashed Hoskuld's

  Two nephews in the head but the sword

  Bent over the head of the second nephew

  Who was called Ingemar the Dimwitted

  Before I bent my sword over his head.

  Afterwards he was called Ingemar the

  Dimmerwitted. But because my sword bent,

  Fat Hoskuld's nephews went at me with

  Their axes and I was forced to duck and dodge

  While I took a rock and hammered the sword

  As straight as I could while I was ducking

  And dodging. Then I bent it again over Gunnar

  The Low-Browed who was called Gunnar

  The No-Browed afterward. But my sword bent again

  And now Gunnar's uncle Ulf the Unwashed came at me

  So I dropped the sword and used my own axe—"

  "Which one?" I demanded. "You've got to say which one, Hrundig!"

  "That is true. I mean the axe which I got

  From Golf the Fearless when I met him at a

  River crossing and he would not let me pass

  So I struck him with my spear and took his

  Axe after he died after I pushed his head

  Under water after my spear bent.

  I took the same axe and smote Golf's

  Brother Ragnar at another river crossing

  When Ragnar wanted weregild but I would

  Not pay it. Instead I cut off his leg with the

  Axe but Ragnar hoppe
d back to his horse

  And took up his own axe and came at me but I

  Cut off his other leg but Ragnar crawled back

  To his horse and took his spear and crawled

  Back so I hit his head but the axe bent

  Even though his head bent also. So I took my

  Own spear and spilled Ragnar's guts but he

  Writhed to his horse and took up his mace and

  Hauled himself back along his own guts and I

  Cut off his arm but he wriggled back to his

  Horse and took up his dagger in his teeth

  And squirmed like an eel back toward me but I

  Broke all his teeth with my spear but the

  Spear bent when he had two molars left.

  So Ragnar chewed on my boot but I took up my

  Other boot and struck him on the head again

  Many times until his head bent further

  But so did my boot but then he—"

  "Enough! Enough!" shrieked the saints. "Petition granted! Petition granted!"

  Hrundig stepped aside. "Does it every time," he smirked, as he sauntered past me.

  * * *

  I couldn't stall any longer. I gave Gwendolyn a glance. She was staring at me, her dark face almost pale. Her lips trembled, as if she were on the verge of whispering something.

  She wouldn't, of course. Not Gwendolyn. But I knew what she wanted to say. Please, Ignace. Do it for me.

  Sighing, I took Greyboar by the elbow and stepped up to the table with him.

  "He's Greyboar the strangler," I muttered, "and I'm—"

  But Jack was already scribbling my name into the ledger right after Greyboar's. "Piece of cake, this one!" he cried. "Can still make it to lunch!"

  He swiveled his head. The saints were squinting at us. Jack got a sour look on his face. Very sour.

  "Oh, come on," he whined. "What more do you want? A professional serial killer and his accomplice ain't good enough for you?"

  The saints sniffed. "Possible duplicity," muttered one. "Not about the sins, of course," added another, "but about the mending of wicked ways."

  A moment later they started that damned intoning business again: "Need insurance! Need insurance!"

  Jack sighed and rubbed his face. "All right," he grumbled, swiveling his head back toward the Evil Horizon. "Send out a bonding agent!"

  Another belch, and out came a rotund little creature looking not so much like a fallen angel as one who'd never risen in the first place. The butterball rolled to his talons and trotted forward cheerfully.

  "Only take a minute!" he cried. "Relax, Jack—you can still make lunch. Don't want to miss it, either. Chipped virgin on toast, today."

  Once he was standing in front of Greyboar and me, the newcomer assumed as dignified a stance as a beachball-shaped demon-sort-of-thing can.

  "I'm Fred, by the way. You can read all about me in Logarithms II, Verse Three. The business about not eating armadillos with cranberry sauce. Now. Repeat after me: 'I solemnly swear . . .' "

  This nonsense went on for some time, while Greyboar and I swore to abandon all evil and wickedness and devote our remaining days to righting wrongs and blather blather blather.

  And still the saints weren't satisfied.

  "New profession!" they intoned. "New profession! Need new professional ethics! Only thing can be trusted!"

  "Quite right!" agreed Fred. "What'll it be, gents? Professional Flagellants? Career Whipping Boys? Mercenary Village Idiots? Or—" Here, a great sneer rippled his face. "Professional Heroes?"

  I gagged. What a choice!

  But Greyboar didn't hesitate. "Hero," he growled.

  "Third, Second, First Class—or Excelsior?" demanded Fred.

  My agent's instincts did us in, there. Because—not understanding the new rules—I immediately piped: "Excelsior! Greyboar's the best!"

  The saints and fallen angels snickered. I got a sinking feeling in my stomach.

  "Good move, Ignace," hissed Magrit from somewhere behind me. "Third Class only has to tackle stuff like local bullies."

  "And you even get to charge a fee," cackled Wittgenstein. "Just a token, of course, but it beats the rules for Professional Hero, Excelsior, which are—"

  I didn't hear the rest, though, because Jack was already gleefully stamping our names with some kind of official-looking seal and Greyboar was hauling me toward the Evil Horizon.

  "Let's go," he said. "May as well get it over with."

  "What about the Cat?" I whined. "She hasn't had her turn yet."

  Greyboar started running toward the Evil Horizon. For all practical purposes, he was carrying me in one hand. I could see Hrundig pounding after us. Along the way, Gwendolyn tossed him a bag holding something lumpy-looking.

  "That's why I'm in a hurry!" he snapped. "She already went through."

  I must have been gaping. Greyboar chuckled. "What? Rules? You know anything can keep the Cat out if she feels like going through?"

  The Evil Horizon was looming over us. I could feel the tidal pull in my soul. And if you don't think that's a weird and scary feeling, think again.

  "I just want to get there before she gets herself hurt," he muttered.

  The Horizon was upon us! I was being torn in half! (Spiritually speaking.) Greyboar picked me up and we went through in a leap.

  Chapter 30.

  Into Even Worse Hands

  When we landed on the other side, my senses were still

  befuddled. It didn't help any that Greyboar must have jumped through leading with his shoulder so we arrived all discombobulated and tangled up. He tripped, but at least he had the good grace not to land on top of me.

  I bounced off, while he scrambled out from under, trying to get my bearings. Things weren't helped any when Hrundig came through and avoided tripping over me by stepping on me!

  But I wasn't so disoriented that I didn't understand what Greyboar was shouting. My heart froze. Just the words I most didn't want to hear.

  "We're just in the nick of time!"

  Trust me on this one. If you ever go adventuring, always try to find the situation where the appropriate words are: "Damn! We're too late! The villain hath done his villainy and decamped to parts unknown!"

  Beats just in the nick of time, let me tell you. Parts unknown is the best place for villains, in my book. As the wise man says: "The only scientific definition of evil is that you can't ignore it."

  I raised my head and stared at the scene in front of me. We were in another cavern, also lit by the same glittering gold-fire, but this one was built on a smaller scale. The ceiling was especially low, not more than twenty feet above our heads. But I didn't spend much time looking at anything except the person we had come to rescue. Benvenuti Sfondrati-Piccolomini himself, in the flesh.

  It was so trite. I mean—really! You'd think the Place Worse Than Hell would have more of an imagination. I'd been hoping that Benvenuti was being subjected to some kind of spiritual torment, don't you know? The sort of ethereal agony that Greyboar and Hrundig and I could have spent hours standing around scratching our heads wondering what bruisers like them and a sensible sinner like me could possibly do about it. While we enjoyed a quiet lunch and maybe a flask of whiskey.

  Nope. Instead—

  Benvenuti was stripped naked except for a loincloth, suspended upside down from the ceiling by a rope tied around his ankles, his head not more than five feet above a huge iron kettle full of boiling oil set over a bronze brazier. The rope ran through some kind of pulley arrangement and was tied off on a post set in the stone floor of the cavern maybe ten feet from the kettle. Ready at an instant, obviously enough, to lower him to his doom. Which, judging from the various flaying instruments sitting upon a giant tray next to the kettle, was intended to be protracted.

  Apparently—judging from the rope marks still on his flesh—his arms had also been bound up. But somehow he'd gotten loose from those ropes and had even managed to shed the manacles on his wrists. One of them, anyw
ay—the set of manacles was still dangling from his left wrist.

  At first, I thought the Cat might have cut them loose with her lajatang. But then, seeing the freewheeling style with which she was wielding the thing against her enemies, I realized that couldn't have been it. As sloppy as ever, in a fight, the Cat would have hacked Benny himself to pieces.

  No, I found out later that Benny had done it himself, as soon as he saw the Cat waft into the cavern. Turns out one of the many things his multitude of uncles had trained him in was the secrets of what they call "escapology." He'd been saving it up as a last resort while he held off Even Worse Hands with the secret lore of suspended insults and shackled derision in which his uncles had also trained him. He'd managed to stall the Even Worse Hands for days that way. Got them so infuriated they held off from flaying him alive until they could rummage up the kettle and enough oil for boiling.

  (Benny was an orphan, you see, and had been raised by his artist and condottieri uncles. And if you're wondering why I hope I never meet those uncles, figure it out for yourself. The nephew is plenty bad enough, getting-you-into-scrapes-wise. Why would his uncles know all that stuff if they didn't need it? Huh?)

  Greyboar, of course, was rushing off to the Cat's rescue. As slippery as she was, Even Worse Hands had her pretty much cornered against a wall of the cavern. She was flailing the lajatang around like you couldn't believe—way better than she'd ever used a sword. Hrundig, I now realized, was every bit as good a weapons trainer as his reputation. But while her enemies bore the marks of several slashes, they could obviously shrug off the injuries easily enough.

  Knuckle them off, I should say.

  I suppose this is as good a time as any to describe Even Worse Hands. Picture two gigantic hands, each one about the size of a bull. Great, gnarled, ugly things, with calluses all over them and the worst manicure you ever saw. Fingers more like talons than fingers, and fingernails so long and scraggly they were almost claws.