The Philosophical Strangler Read online

  Then Butin's reserve cracked just slightly. "I simply don't understand!" he cried. "A chokester of your reputation!"

  Greyboar spread his hands. "Well, Your Lordship, it's like this here. Sure and I was in a dilemma, torn between my professional ethics and my solemn vow never to choke girls. Fortunately, I am—as you may have heard—a student of philosophy. A fortunate man, I've been—I was trained by the King of the Sundjhab, you know?" Greyboar coughed. "A very brief apprenticeship, to be sure—but he was a great guru, the King! Incredible man, to have taught me so much in such a short time. And then! Postgraduate polish applied to me by the great sorcerer Zulkeh. A master dialectician!"

  The Baron was staring at Greyboar like he was looking at a madman. I hate to admit it, but I actually had a moment of empathy for His Lordship, for just that one fleeting second.

  Greyboar continued. "Of course, once I applied their teachings to my dilemma, the solution came to me almost at once. Hadn't the wizard Zulkeh taught me to seek the higher synthesis which arises from the contradiction of thesis and antithesis? Didn't my guru explain that entropy is the guiding principle of all ethics? So I realized that the dilemma could only be resolved by rising to a higher plane. And what plane could be higher than the increase of entropy, the pursuit of disorder from order?"

  The Baron, his face now red as a beet, began to speak. He didn't get far.

  "I have not finished," said Greyboar, in that tone of voice he occasionally used. Could silence the surf, that tone of voice.

  "So I asked myself, what is really the ethical issue here? What course of action would flow with Time's Arrow, what course resist it with futile immorality? The answer was then obvious! Wonderful girls, Angela and Jenny! Really—natural-born ethical entropists! Not only did the little rascals humiliate a great Lord, but they went further and broke down these old and hoary rigidities concerning the proper sexual order—and with great thermodynamic energy, too! I know, I was there!"

  Greyboar was now smiling broadly. "Yes, marvelous lasses! Instinctive philosophes of the second law of thermodynamics! Pioneers of entropy! Explorers of disorder! Of course they had to survive—they were an example for us all!"

  Greyboar coughed modestly. "I myself, perhaps. Well! Ignace and I have been close for many years. Perhaps an even greater closeness, perhaps we too could contribute—" He eyed me speculatively. I was furious, you can imagine! Him and his little jokes! I didn't think it was a bit funny!

  "Well, perhaps not," admitted Greyboar. "A good lad, Ignace, but he's really quite set in his ways. Not a philosophical bone in his body, I'm afraid. In any event, Your Lordship, I trust I've explained the thing to your satisfaction."

  By now the Baron had quite lost his aristocratic reserve. "You are not only a scoundrel, sirrah," he stormed, "you are a pervert and a madman! Leave! At once!"

  Again, Greyboar coughed apologetically. "Well, actually, Your Lordship, there remains one small matter which we need to resolve before we go." He held up a hand, forestalling the Baron's next—no doubt peremptory—sentence.

  "Won't take but a moment, Your Lordship," said Greyboar soothingly. "I assure you—just a brief moment of your time. You see, oddly enough, I have acquired another client. Two of them, actually. An unusual situation all the way around. Cut my rates to the bone, for one thing."

  He turned to me. "What am I being paid again, Ignace?"

  I glared at him. As the wise man says: "Fun's fun, but money's money."

  "One penny, as you damned well know," I snarled. "They scraped together a shilling and tuppence, but you made me give the rest back. Just needed the one penny, you said, to satisfy the requirements of professional ethics."

  "Why, yes, so I did," rumbled the strangler. He turned back to the Baron. And then he grinned.

  Even a man as stupid as the Baron finally figured it out at the end. An artist's dream, that momentary tableau. The Great Hunter. Sans Beaters. Sans Bearers. Sans Guides. Sans Tout But the Beast.

  He tried to scream for help, but he couldn't get out a sound, even before The Thumbs closed around his throat. I'm not surprised, really. I'm sure it was Greyboar's grin moving toward him. Must have been like staring into his own open grave.

  * * *

  Well, much to my surprise, the whole thing turned out to have quite a few bright spots. "Every storm drowns a few rats," as the wise man says.

  First of all, we got out of there without the slightest little ruckus. Always nice, a job that doesn't require a messy getaway. I hear it was five hours before the butler got up enough nerve to peek into the Baron's study, and by then we'd already knocked down eight pots of ale in The Sign of the Trough.

  Then—lackeys babble, it's the nature of the breed—the word got all around town, especially among the upper crust where most of our business comes from. Greyboar had set a new world record! The Baron's neck was tied into a double sheepshank. Never been done before. Of course, I made sure the Records Committee got it into the books. But even before they made the official announcement, clients were pounding on our door. Displeasure of the Queen and the Ozarine be damned! Greyboar was back in fashion—big fashion. I even cranked our standard rate up to 1500 quid.

  Then, what would you know but two weeks later I got a note from Jenny and Angela inviting me over for dinner. Quite a nice dinner, too, they must have scraped for a week to put it together. I offered to help pay for the food, but they wouldn't hear of it. Wound up staying there quite a while. Well, the whole night, actually. It turned out they weren't really all that rigid in their ways, so to speak, so maybe Greyboar was right about the moral advance of disorder (whatever that meant).

  In fact, I found myself spending quite a bit of my time over there, in the days that followed. Well. Actually, to be honest, I found myself spending most of my time over there, when I wasn't attending to business. To my astonishment, whole days would go by—two or three in a row, sometimes—where I didn't even make a token appearance at The Trough. And when I did, more often that not, it was just to conduct a little bit of quick business. Then—off.

  Of course, the proper Trough-men made a big deal over it. But I was impervious. Serene in my disregard. The sniggers were flat; the ridicule, limp; the derision, as hollow as an aching tooth.

  Eat your hearts out, boys.

  Yet, oddly, I didn't boast. I just maintained a dignified silence. No way to explain it, really, that wouldn't have gotten me into the soup with the Trough-men. Sure, and I was having fun. More fun than I'd ever had in my life, in fact. But—

  The truth is, it was mainly the peace of mind. I found myself treasuring the moments when Jenny and Angela were asleep even more, in some ways, than the excitement when they were awake. Just listening to them breathe softly in the dark was a treasure I hoarded even more than I'd ever hoarded any coin. And me—a champion miser!

  I think— I don't know. Hard to explain. I think it was maybe that being around them made me feel like I might have felt if I hadn't grown up to be me. Or something like that.

  * * *

  Of course, I didn't neglect my managerial responsibilities. Even when it meant grinding my teeth for hours and hours listening to Greyboar droning on about his progress with "Languor" and his hopes for eventual "Torpor" and his daydreams about final "Stupor."

  Then—finally! Just when I was sure I'd never hear the end of Greyboar's bragging and boasting about his philosophy—the big loon got distracted. Really distracted.

  The Cat had been gone for a week or so. Where? Who knows? Looking for Schrödinger, I expect. But, anyway, one night she showed up again at The Trough. Greyboar invited her over to our table right away, of course. Stubborn, like I said. She sat down, off in her own world. Eventually she got around to asking Greyboar what he'd been up to lately, with about the same interest you might ask a rock how it's feeling. Wouldn't you know it but Greyboar started off and told her the whole story, droning on and on about the philosophical intricacies and the dialectical subtleties and all the other goobledygook
he learned from Zulkeh. I mean, not the sort of thing your normal wooer with half a brain would touch with a ten-foot pole, don't you know?

  Strange, strange woman. About halfway through the story, the Cat took off her telescope-lens spectacles and gave them a good cleaning. She put them back on and stared at Greyboar until he finished the whole story. Never took her eyes off him once. After all this time, I think it was the first time she actually looked at the guy.

  When Greyboar was finally finished, she continued staring at him for a while. Then she said, very abruptly: "Stand up." Greyboar stood. The Cat got up and slowly walked around him—for all the world like a lumberjack sizing up a tree.

  She sat back down and stared at him a bit more.

  "You know," she said, with an actual tone in her voice, "you're kind of cute. For a gorilla."

  Well, I'm a man of the world, so I quickly made a graceful exit. Figured I'd leave the two of them alone for a half hour or so—just long enough to let a little warmth get started, but not so long that Greyboar would ruin it with another philosophy lecture.

  But when I went back to the table, they were gone. Didn't see either of them for two weeks. Furious, I was—you wouldn't believe the business I had to turn down!

  Finally, Greyboar showed up, smiling like an imbecile, laughing at everything like a tot, practically had to have his chin wiped. Said he'd fallen in love, no less.

  It figured. Leave it to a philosophical strangler to fall in love with the weirdest woman in the world. But I was still happier listening to him babble about the Cat than babble about ontology. Leastwise, I could understand some of what he was talking about. Quite a bit, actually.

  Chapter 4.

  Portrait of a Strangler

  But all that came later. In the immediate aftermath, the Baron's

  choke resulted in a completely unexpected hitch. Greyboar's sister Gwendolyn came back to haunt us. In a strange sort of way.

  Late in the afternoon of the very next day, while we were at The Trough having a friendly argument over my idea of "life's big questions"—stout or lager—a stranger showed up. The first we knew of him was when Leuwen came over and started muttering and mumbling something incoherent. He was wiping his hands on his rag, too, in that particular way he has whenever he's got something to say to Greyboar that he thinks the big guy won't like.

  Silly habit. Greyboar's never been one to blame the messenger, and, even if he were, he certainly wouldn't take his peeve out on a professional Flankn barkeep. Just isn't done. Your imperial-level ambassadors don't hold a candle to Flankn barkeeps when it comes to real diplomatic immunity.

  "Stop mumbling," growled Greyboar. "Just spit it out."

  "Well, see, it's like this, Greyboar. There's this guy here—he's a stranger. An outlander, actually, damned if he isn't an Ozarine—but he's vouched for by The Roach himself, if you can fathom that. It's the truth! He came here once before, Oscar and the lads brung him, and spent a fair number of hours quaffing ale with The Roach in one of the small private rooms, although The Roach let it be known in the main room right here—in no uncertain terms—that Benny—that's his name, this stranger I'm talking about—was a friend of his and not to be meddled with. If you know what I mean."

  (What it means, if you're not familiar with the personage involved, is that The Roach passed the word in The Trough—the Flankn's combined heart and central nervous system—that if any Flankn cutpurse or mugger so much as looked cross-eyed at this Benny fellow, well, they'd have The Roach to deal with. And The Boots. Among the lowlife of New Sfinctr, that's as good as gold. Quite a bit better, actually. Even gold wears out, eventually. The Boots and their effects are eternal.)

  Leuwen was still droning on and around and about and up and down and sideways, so Greyboar cut him short: "Get to the point."

  Again, the frantic wiping of the hands. Then: "Well, you see, actually, the point is—he wants to talk to you."

  Greyboar lifted his eyebrows. "So? Send him over, then."

  * * *

  Some few moments later, Leuwen was wending his way back through the crowded taproom with a stranger in tow. The man was carrying a cloth sack filled with something or other in one hand, and an odd-looking object of some sort in the other. The thing was flat, almost like a board, and about four feet wide by three feet tall. Couldn't figure out what it was.

  As he drew near, the man subjected us to a very close scrutiny. Well, subjected Greyboar, I should say. He didn't give me but a glance. In and of itself, that wasn't unusual. Strangers often stared at Greyboar when they first met him, even if they didn't know who he was. If they did, the stare became an ogle.

  But there was something odd about this fellow's stare. There was no fear in it, not even apprehension. Instead, there seemed to be some kind of weird recognition. Almost as if he were seeing a ghost, or something.

  But I didn't spend much time trying to figure out what the stranger was thinking. I was much too busy wallowing in an immediate, overwhelming, intense, detestation of him.

  I hate that man, was the overriding thought in my mind. May he contract leprosy. May he stumble and disfigure himself. May he suffer from an incurable deadly disease which strikes him down before he takes another step. May a meteorite plunge through the roof and turn him into a crater. May—

  And so on, and so forth.

  No man in the world has any right to be that handsome.

  It was so disgusting. Mind you, I'm not normally given to envy over such things. There's no need for it. Your normal "handsome man" is an object of ridicule. Most of them are pretty-boy types, which the girls may swoon over but which any solid male bellied up to a bar can instantly dismiss with a sneer. "Cream puff. Break him like a twig."

  Alas. I doubted that any man in The Trough could have broken this fellow, other than Greyboar and maybe a couple of your finest muggers. He wasn't just impossibly handsome, he was also—brace yourself for another sample of life's fundamental unfairness—tall, broad-shouldered, lean-hipped, flat-bellied, the whole works. His stride had a light, pantherish quality to it, which went quite oddly with the soulful sadness in his gray eyes. And his hands! Oh, the injustice of it all! Women would gaze on those finely-shaped, long-fingered, well-manicured objects with fascinated curiosity, and decide he was undoubtedly a charming fellow. Men would examine the size of the sinewy things, note how well they undoubtedly wrapped themselves around the hilt of the sword scabbarded to his waist, and decide likewise.

  The sword, naturally, was not only a finely-made rapier with a truly splendid hilt and basket, it was also obviously well used.

  By the time Leuwen brought the wretch to our table I had damned him to a thousand deaths. Silently, of course. Alas, Greyboar didn't share a natural male reaction to such things. And, fact is, should the big guy have chosen not to back me up in a little contretemps—he'd been known to desert me in my hour of need—things might have gotten a little tricky if the stranger took offense at my conduct.

  True, the man was obviously an Ozarine. The dark complexion and the typical Ozarine cast to his features gave him away even before he opened his mouth and exhibited that grotesque Ozarine accent. But I was not one of those dolts who thought all Ozarines were overcivilized fops. Overcivilized fops do not, as a rule, conquer half the world.

  Greyboar gazed up at the fellow and spoke.

  "May I be of assistance, sirrah?" Yeah, just like that. Polite as can be.

  The stranger bowed—I hated that bow; courteous as you could ask for, without a trace of foppery; there's no justice—and replied: "Indeed, sirrah, such is my very hope." He gestured to an unoccupied chair at our table. "May I?"

  I scowled, but Greyboar immediately nodded his permission. After the man sat down, he said: "Allow me to introduce myself, gentlemen. I am an artist. My name is Benvenuti Sfondrati-Piccolomini. If I am not mistaken, I believe I have the honor of addressing the famous professional strangler Greyboar and his agent"—here he nodded politely at me and shrugged apologetically�
�"whose name, alas, is not known to me."

  Naturally, I started to deny everything, but Greyboar cut me off. "His name's Ignace. And I'm Greyboar."

  Since there was now no hope of claiming to be misrecognized, I decided to brush the fellow off.

  "What d'you want?" I demanded, in my best brush-off tone. "We're busy."

  Alas, the fellow took no offense. Instead, to my surprise, he beamed cheerfully. No simpering foppish smile, either. One of those manly-type grins. Naturally, his teeth were blindingly white. Naturally, the debonair dark mustache set them off perfectly.

  "Perhaps you can help me with a problem." He reached back and lifted the strange object he'd been carrying. He turned it toward us. Now, finally, I recognized the thing. Artist, he'd said. Sure enough, the object was a portrait. A very large portrait. Oil on canvas.

  Unfortunately for my amour propre, I was in mid-quaff when he turned the portrait. Seeing it full on, I couldn't stop myself from spewing ale all over the table.

  Greyboar, whether from some weird premonition or simply because he has the nervous reactions of iron ore, simply took a long, casual draught of his ale pot. Then, after a satisfied belch, announced:

  "Quite a good portrait of the Baron." He wiped foam from his lips. "Excellent, actually—though I'm no connoisseur of the arts."

  "Connoyser be damned!" I hissed. I was on my feet like a shot.

  "Blackmail!" I pronounced. "Choke him, Greyboar! Burke him, I say! He's a filthy rotten blackmailer!"

  Greyboar, alas, responded with nothing more dynamic than a glance in my direction. "Choke him?" he mused. "Blackmail? Whatever are you talking about, Ignace?"

  He turned his gaze onto the stranger. "Surely this fine gentleman's no blackmailer," he rumbled. "And if he were, so what? What crime have we committed to fear blackmail?"

  The stranger glanced at me and laughed. "Too many for Ignace to count, I venture to say." The quick laugh was followed by a pleasant grin and a casual wave of the hand.

  "But you may rest easy, Ignace," he announced. "You may have, but I most surely did not, mistake the emphasis in Greyboar's words. Where you heard 'what crime have we committed,' I heard the important words: 'to fear blackmail.' "