The Philosophical Strangler Read online

  * * *

  "Hiya, shrimp," Gwendolyn said.

  "Long time," I croaked back.

  The next thing I knew—just like it'd happened all those years ago—I was clutching her. Bawling my eyes out, if you can believe it.

  "S'okay, Ignace." She squatted down. Her powerful arms gathered me up and held me tight. So tight, so real, just like I remembered. "S'okay. I never really stopped loving you either. Even if you were a crook, I knew you weren't dishonest. A rotter, yes. Rotten, no."

  "Faint praise," I mumbled sourly, my face still pressed into her neck.

  Gwendolyn's big shoulders heaved. One of those chuckling kind of shrugs, I would have thought, except that I could feel her own tears leaking into my hair.

  "What else do you ever get in this world?" she whispered.

  * * *

  That brought the high moment of the day. Because Wittgenstein made a wisecrack, and, like me, his timing was off.

  "Idn't dat sweet?" he sniggered, from his perch on Magrit's shoulder. "Weeping willow meets blubbering bantam."

  The Cat was there, somehow, clutching Wittgenstein in her hand. Didn't even see her move.

  "Wonder if salamanders can grow new heads?" she mused, hefting the lajatang.

  The Cat's not given to idle speculation. She proceeded immediately with the experiment.

  "You fruitcake!" howled Wittgenstein. Hissed, I should say. It's hard to actually howl, when your head's no longer connected to your lungs.

  Everybody else was really howling, now. With laughter, except for Magrit.

  "You fruitcake!" She charged up, shouldering the Cat aside, and stooped over to pick up Wittgenstein's head. "You got any idea how hard it's going to be to fix him back up?"

  The Cat shook her head. "No. Can I watch?"

  Chapter 28.

  Consolation Prize

  In case you've never witnessed the operation, recapitating a

  salamander is a time-consuming affair. It would have taken even longer if the Cat hadn't been there to give Magrit a hand.

  "Quit squirming around, Wittgenstein!" Magrit was trying to hold the creature still while she positioned the head in the right place. She snarled at the Cat: "If he twitches one more time, start cutting something else off."

  "My pleasure." The lajatang weaved over Wittgenstein's form, like a dragonfly looking for food. The salamander was suddenly as rigid as a board. Even his eyes stopped rolling around, except for following the movement of the blade. Very closely.

  "That's better," grumbled the witch. Then she pulled a sewing kit out of her witch's bag and went to work. The process took quite a while on account of the teeny little stitches Magrit was making, and all the incantations she droned over each and every one. At one point, Wittgenstein lost enough of his fear of the Cat to start whining, but Magrit shut him up right quick.

  "You wanna look like Wittgenstein—or Frankenstein?"

  She and the Cat started howling. The salamander's eyes bugged even further, and he hissed with outrage. "That's Frankenstein's monster, you ignoramus!"

  An instant later, he was squealing. Magrit shook her head sadly. "Oh, look. You made me drop a stitch."

  Magrit and the Cat went off into another round of maniacal cackling. Thereafter, the wretched little beast maintained his own counsel.

  After a while, I lost interest and started studying the surroundings.

  A "grotto," I believe I called it. Well, forget that. Now that I had a chance to really examine the place, I saw that the space we were in was much too big to be called anything except a "cavern." The Mother of All Caverns, to be precise.

  Huge—in every dimension. The reason I'd been fooled by those first glimpses was simply because there were peculiar columns all over the place. Those drippy-stone things—you know, what they call something like catamites except there's no pedophilia involved. And the columns were all veined with that inner-glittering gold-fire substance.

  My greed would have been aroused except that even I could tell this wasn't real gold. Not even fool's gold. Even from a distance, the stuff had a nasty look to it.

  The wizard confirmed my suspicions immediately. He was over by one of the columns poking at the stuff with his staff. Shelyid was standing by his side, leaning against the huge sack.

  "No doubt at all, my loyal but stupid apprentice. 'Tis indeed the fell mineral known as overthebrimstone." He poked it again, his lips pursed with distaste. "A dreadful substance. Magrit will be delighted."

  Magrit must have overheard him. "I want no less than three pounds of it, Zulkeh! That was part of the deal!"

  Shelyid sighed. The mage didn't even have to give him the order. The dwarf opened the sack and disappeared within. A minute or so later he reemerged, clutching a large stoppered jar—what sorcerers call an amphora—and a rock pick. Soon enough he was hard at work, chipping pieces of the stuff into the jar.

  Moved by some odd impulse, I wandered over to give him a hand. But Shelyid waved me back.

  "Don't come no closer, Ignace," he hissed. "Really is nasty stuff. Saps your moral fiber like nothing you ever ran into. And since you don't have much to begin with, you wouldn't last more than a few seconds."

  I retreated hastily. Chip, chip, chip. Shelyid muttered: "What does she want it for, anyway?"

  Zulkeh had moved back a few feet himself, but was still in hearing range. "Bah!" he oathed. "The vile harridan is the mistress of foety, apprentice. You should know that by now! There is none on earth can match her skills at revenge-work."

  The sorcerer pointed at the jar with his staff. "Not more than a few flakes of that horrid substance, ground into powder and mixed with an enemy's food or drink, will do the trick. Transform their venial sins into mortal ones, their mortal sins into no mere turn of phrase. Within a fortnight, the glutton will be dead of gluttony, the miser of starvation, the envious of a burst spleen. Dire stuff, indeed!"

  Still sewing, Magrit cackled. "And you should see what it does to lechers! According to the books, anyway. Never used the stuff before, myself. Can't get it anywhere except here, in the Place Even Worse Than Hell. Half the reason I agreed to come."

  That reminder of how dangerous the place was made me look for Jenny and Angela. To my relief, they weren't nosing around like they usually would be. Instead, they were sitting cross-legged next to Greyboar and Gwendolyn, chattering away like magpies.

  That sight didn't bring much relief, however. Gloomily, I was quite certain that they were exchanging stories about me with Gwendolyn. You know the kind of stories. The ones women swap about their menfolk, running along the theme of: Yeah, He's No Good But There's Hope For Him And We'll See To It, We Will.

  Sigh. I could see it coming, a mile away. The Great Ignace Rehabilitation Project. The cheerful eager smile on Greyboar's face confirmed it, along with the way he was nodding his head like a witless orangutan. You know the one. The smile reformed sinners get around their womenfolk when the ladies are chattering away on the theme of One Down, One To Go.

  Sigh.

  * * *

  Hrundig interrupted my thoughts of gloom and doom.

  "Gloomy place," he remarked. "Makes me think of doom."

  "Thanks a lot," I grumbled. "Just what I needed to hear."

  His cold grin was back in place. "What's the matter, Ignace? Contemplating the Fate Worse Than Death?"

  I snarled. "You've got a lot of nerve, making jokes about mending your wicked ways!"

  The barb bounced right off. He just shrugged. "I did that a long time ago, to tell you the truth. After Olga's husband was murdered and I got her and the girls out safely, I sort of took stock. As you might say."

  I stared into his ice-blue eyes. Hrundig is one of those deadly-looking men, if you know what I mean. I don't mean "dangerous." I mean—deadly. It's always a shock, with someone like that, when you realize they actually have a soul. Just like people.

  I'd learned some of the story. Hrundig had been hired in Prygg by Olga's husband, after the Alsask ret
ired from the Legions. The artist had gotten so famous that he needed a bodyguard just to fend off the adoring aesthetes. When Frissault got arrested for heresy, Hrundig hadn't been able to save him from the tender mercies of the Inquisition and the Godferrets. But he did manage to smuggle the widow and the daughters to safety. Along with enough of Frissault's paintings to set the family up in a secret villa in New Sfinctr. Then, I guess, kept them afloat with the money he made from his salle d'armes.

  Odd thing to do, for such a man.

  I guess he must have seen the question in my eyes. He shrugged again, in a gesture so economical it might be called "minute."

  "I wrestled with it. Long time. The truth is, it really bothered my conscience. I'd fallen in love with the woman within a week after I was hired. I tried to save her husband—did; tried hard as I could—but—"

  "The Inquisition," I jeered. "What were you going to do? Must have been a hundred Godferrets swarming all over him, after he was exposed."

  Hrundig took a little breath. "A hundred and six, to be precise. I counted. Headed up by none other than Godferret Superior #3."

  He broke off for a moment, his eyes scanning the reaches of the cavern. The glittering gold-fire reflecting in the blue irises reminded me of nothing I wanted to be reminded of. For a moment, I almost felt sorry for Godferret Superior #3. Nobody in the world can feud like an Alsask, and they never forget a vendetta.

  "Anyway," he continued softly, "it was a struggle. On the other hand, I was glad the man was dead. Not that I ever had anything against him. Damn good employer, to tell the truth. But Olga was a widow, now. So—"

  He brought his eyes back to me. "So, in the end, I decided I could make it good by making it good. If you understand what I mean."

  I tried not to, but I did. And, needless to say, sighed again.

  "I hate righteous living," I grumbled.

  Hrundig gave me that patented mirthless grin of his. "Oh, it really isn't that bad, Ignace. Of course, it does require you to get acquainted with the foulest, most rotten, most disgusting four-letter word in the universe."

  I nodded gloomily. "Work."

  * * *

  A moment later, Magrit hollered: "Done! You're as good as new, Wittgenstein."

  Then, a moment later, Shelyid trotted up and handed her the jar full of overthebrimstone.

  From there, things went like a mudslide. Greyboar and Gwendolyn and Jenny and Angela were up and about, raring to go. Wittgenstein was back on Magrit's shoulder while the witch cheerfully went about packing up her bag. The salamander's red eyes were glaring at everything and everybody except, of course—

  —the Cat, who was drifting around here and there, apparently studying nothing in particular.

  Worst of all, though, was Zulkeh. Because while I was chatting with Hrundig, Shelyid had hauled the wizard's brazier out of the sack and Zulkeh was busily burning nasty stuff in it while muttering some kind of incantations.

  Oh, yeah, it looks silly when you see it. Idiot sorcerer in his idiot robes, making idiot noises while he goes through idiot motions. Ha. Most wizards, of course, really are idiots. But the problem with Zulkeh is that despite his grotesque ways he really isn't an actual idiot. Fact is, he's what they call the genuine article. So when he starts—

  Sure enough. A giant form was taking shape in the cavern. Think of a huge, roiling blackish-gray sort of cloud, with quick glimpses of lightning flashing somewhere in the dimly-glimpsed interior. Except these didn't look like bolts of lightning so much as cobra fangs.

  Cheery.

  Shelyid had drifted back and was now standing next to Hrundig and me. "The professor really knows his stuff," he piped. "Aren't more than three, maybe four mages in the whole world know the cantrips of Schwarzchild Laebmauntsforscynneweëld."

  The thing taking shape in the cavern was changing even as the dwarf spoke. The cloud form was now starting to firm up into something even more shapeless, if that makes any sense. Kind of like a huge black hole that you really can't see at all but you know it's there.

  "Only way anybody can go any further," added Shelyid cheerfully. "Now that we're past the Infernal Regions and into the Place Even Worse Than Hell." He pointed his finger at the thing. "The Evil Horizon, the professor says it's called. Once you go past it you can't ever get out."

  A faint ray of hope began to flicker in my heart. Shelyid quenched it immediately. "Unless you mend your wicked ways, of course. But you have to have really really wicked ways to mend, and you have to really really mend them. Big time. Nobody else has a chance."

  His voice was loud enough to be heard by everybody. All eyes turned to Greyboar. Then to me.

  "Wonderful," I growled.

  "Ain't so bad," chuckled Hrundig. "I might be able to qualify too. Maybe."

  "Wonderful," I growled. "We've been suckered again."

  Chapter 29.

  Beyond the Evil Horizon

  "This is really why Greyboar and I had to come along on this damn-fool expedition, isn't it?" I glared at Hrundig; then, realizing the futility of that enterprise, at Shelyid. "You needed us to get through that thing."

  Shelyid shook his head vehemently. "Oh no, Ignace! This is just one of the reasons. We also needed you on account of the Even Worse Hands which are lurking beyond the Evil Horizon."

  The dwarf peered at me dubiously. "I thought you were a student of the wise man," he complained. "Didn't you even hear his famous saying that you shouldn't try to think of the worst thing that could happen because—"

  "It's bound to be worse," Hrundig chuckled. He clapped me on the shoulder. "Ignace knows that one. I'm sure he does!"

  I started to say something sarcastic, but Jenny and Angela distracted my attention. They charged up to Zulkeh and started arguing with him.

  "We're going too! We're going too!" they shouted in unison.

  The wizard scowled. "Nonsense! Utter nonsense!"

  They kept hollering. In fact, they were hopping up and down in front of Zulkeh, shaking their little fists in his face.

  "Are too! Are too!"

  Zulkeh smote the floor of the cavern with his staff. "A Distinction!" he cried. "I demand a Distinction! The Sinners from the Wicked! The Repentant from the Unrueful!"

  The vast formless form seemed to quiver a bit. A sound like a huge, distant snicker emerged from the thing. Zulkeh smote the cavern floor again, swiveling his head and glaring furiously at the Evil Horizon.

  "What means this insolence?" he demanded. " 'Tis an outrage!" A moment later he was striding right up to the monstrosity, waving his staff about. The sheer, pure evil emanating from it didn't seem to faze the mage a bit.

  "Mock me, will you?" he demanded. Again, he smote the cavern floor with his staff. "So be it! Wretched ultimate evil! Base cur of low degree!"

  He turned his head and glared at the dwarf. "Shelyid! Fetch me the Codex of Evaporation!"

  "Right away, professor!" The dwarf started unlacing the top of the giant sack. Ready at an instant—it was obvious to all—to climb into its cavernous interior and retrieve whatever object the mage was demanding.

  Zulkeh, meanwhile, was back to shaking his staff at the form of ultimate evil. I swear—I saw it, I tell you—he even took a two-handed swipe at the thing.

  "Defy me in my quest, will you?" he shrilled. "We shall see about that, pitiful wretch! Once I begin my intonation of the dread formulae of Hawking Sfondrati-Piccolomini—"

  The Evil Horizon suddenly blanched. Weird, that—seeing a black hole turn white as a ghost, for just a nanosecond. But it did. Word of honor.

  "Aye, indeed!" spoke Zulkeh. "Indeed! By the first verse, ye shall begin to wither. By the second—"

  The Evil Horizon emitted another sound. Like a huge, distant yelp. An instant later, it made a sound something like a belch. Out popped a wizened old demon-sort-of-thing, clutching a ledger and a quill pen.

  "Easy, easy!" squealed the demon-sort-of-thing. "Easy, now! We can straighten all this out in a moment!"

  There was
another belching sound, and a table came flying out. Along with a stool. Another belch, and out came four more demon-sorts-of-things, even more wizened than the first.

  The first demon-sort-of-thing hastily arranged the table and stool and set itself up behind it, ledger open and quill pen in taloned hand. The other four ranged themselves in a row off to one side.

  "Now, then," it said. "What seems to be the difficulty?"

  The mage stepped forward to the table. "We demand passage through the Evil Horizon—with a guarantee of safe return."

  "I see," muttered the demon-sort-of-thing. It poised the pen over the ledger, preparing to write. "And you are?"

  "Zulkeh of Goimr, phy—"

  He didn't even have a chance to finish before the little gaggle of other demon-sorts-of-things started chanting in unison.

  "Petition denied! Petition denied!"

  The demon-sort-of-thing at the table finished scratching Zulkeh's name into the ledger and then immediately scratched a line through it. "Absurd," it muttered. "Even if the saints hadn't spoken, I would have denied the petition myself."

  The "saints"? I stared at the four demon-sorts-of-things. And noticed, for the first time, that a faint halo flickered over the head of each one. Very faint halos, mind you—and sickly-looking, to boot. But halos, no doubt about it.

  My confusion must have shown on my face. Wittgenstein hissed at me: "No private parts, dummy. That's how you can tell fallen angels from real devils."

  His words made me realize why Hildegard had been so reticent on the matter. I stooped and peered under the table, examining the private parts of the demon-sort-of-thing sitting there. Sure enough. He didn't have any private parts either.

  "You aren't a demon-sort-of-thing," I complained. "You're a fallen angel."

  The fallen angel got a sour look on its face. "Bah!" oathed Zulkeh. "Say better: a plummeted angel. Or, best of all: a diver into the ultimate deeps."

  He cocked his head so far over I thought his pointed wizard's hat would fall off. Then, after finishing his examination of the fallen angel, pronounced: "Harry, if I am not mistaken. The one mentioned in the Book of Tribulations, verse seventeen. You recall, Ignace? The one who told the Old Geister—"