The Philosophical Strangler

  Anyway, I'll just tell the story from here on, as I put it together from Leuwen's babbling. Bit difficult to follow his own petrified grammar, don't you know?

  The Goatmonk hadn't come into The Trough in quite a while. The one and only time he did The Roach took a dislike to him. Instant dislike, in fact—the Goatmonk didn't even make it to a chair. Unfortunately, The Boots just missed him by a hair, and the Goatmonk made it out the door before The Roach could send him to the Big Cell in the Sky. Pity, that.

  The Roach's voice—quite the voice it is, too—followed Father Venery down the street, informing him in The Roach's inimitable style that if the stinking priest ever showed his face in The Trough again he'd be so much stomped parson. Not scared of much, the Goatmonk wasn't, but like most people he had a real fear of The Boots. Not that I blamed him. Over the years I must have turned down a hundred jobs from The Roach's ex-employers, wanting to hire Greyboar to choke "that booted, bearded ruffian," as they usually called him.

  First time we got an offer, I consulted with Greyboar, but the big guy said not a chance. "I like The Roach," he'd explained, "even though he doesn't approve of my 'idle ways,' as he calls them. Then, there's the fact that my sister thinks the world of him—'old friend and comrade-in-arms,' she calls him, when she isn't calling him 'the champion of the toiling masses.' Wouldn't want to antagonize Gwendolyn, surely wouldn't. And besides," he concluded, scratching his head thoughtfully, "I'm not actually sure how it would all turn out, trying to choke The Roach. Bit dicey, job like that, bit dicey. Fearsome they are, The Boots."

  But the Goatmonk must've heard The Roach was out of town, so he followed the Cat into The Trough. The trouble started right away. The Goatmonk sat himself down at the Cat's table. She told him to get lost. Then Leuwen swore (a hundred times) that he tried to stop the whole thing before it got started but he swore (a thousand times) that the Cat told him to shut up, she didn't need any help. He was probably telling the truth, it'd be just like the Cat. What they call an independent woman. It was one of the reasons she and Greyboar were so tight—they gave each other plenty of room.

  So anyway, the Goatmonk didn't take the hint. Started groping, he did. So the Cat whipped out her sword and started chopping. Father Venery was not easily discouraged, however, and responded by swinging away with his priestly staff. Figured he'd pound the woman into a pulp and then get on with the seduction, I imagine. Wouldn't be the first time he'd used that particular technique, no sirree.

  It must have been a hell of a fight; I wish I'd seen it. Huge, the Goatmonk, built like a hippo. A lot of it fat, sure, but he was still as strong as a bull. And he always carried his staff. "To bless the poor," he'd say, laughing like a sewer. Six feet long, that staff, two inches thick, made of solid oak—the Old Geister knows what it weighed. Capped with iron ferrules at both ends. Father Venery could handle it like a normal man could handle a twig. Once, in the marketplace, I saw him split an ox's head with one blow of the staff. Just for the fun of it. Split the owner's head, too, when the peasant started yowling at him.

  The Goatmonk started off aiming for the Cat's legs. Wasn't trying to kill the lady, just change her mood, don't you know? But soon enough it dawned on him that he'd gotten himself into something a lot trickier than it looked, and after that he started fighting in earnest.

  Really wish I'd seen it. You wouldn't think it'd be much of a contest. The Cat was big for a woman, but she was no giantess like Greyboar's sister. True, she was quick on her feet, and her sword was three feet long and sharp as a razor. But she was also half blind. And the truth of it is, she hadn't any real idea of how to use a sword. She'd just grab hold of the hilt like it was an axe and start chopping.

  But I'd seen the Cat in a fight before, that time in Blain, and I would've put my money on her in a minute.

  You see, the woman's strange. Really strange. Sure, and you always hear that women are unpredictable, but the Cat took it to extremes.

  Oh, I would've given a lot to have been there! I could see it in my mind. Father Venery roaring like a bull, his staff slashing right and left. And the Cat here and there and up and down and back and forth, cutting and chopping and hacking and hewing at anything at all that happened to be in the area. I almost felt sorry for the Goatmonk. Whenever he thought she was one place, she'd be someplace else. And whenever she was moving, it was either faster than he thought or slower than it looked or just plain in the opposite direction from where she was going. It's impossible to describe the Cat in action. I know, I've seen her. You can figure out where she is, or how fast she's going, but you can't do both at the same time. And sure, she was practically blind, so she couldn't see the Goatmonk either, but did the Cat care? Not a fig. She just chopped away at whatever was around, playing the percentages. Innocent spectators be damned.

  Made the Cat's fights quite exciting for would-be bystanders, I can tell you. Oh, do I wish I'd been there! It makes me laugh just to think about it!

  The Trough was packed. It'd been a busy night to begin with, and once the word hit the streets everybody came running. The Trio in B-Flat came charging in just as the Cat's sword went whizzing through the doorway. They were down in a flash. Good reflexes, those boys—best thieves in the Flankn. Naturally, they fell to quarreling.

  "Twenty bob on th'lady!" cried McDoul.

  "You're on!" came Geronimo Jerry. The Weasel held the bet. The money was in his hand before they hit the floor.

  Yeah, the Cat was all over the place. It was a good thing for the spectators that she was still using her sword instead of the lajatang she'd been training on. One second she'd be chopping up the counter, the next a table in a corner, then swinging at some poor slob who was just trying to watch. She was hacking at anything that moved—anything that didn't move, for that matter.

  And the patrons! Scrambling for cover under tables one minute, climbing on each others' shoulders for a good view the next. It's not like they couldn't have left if they were worried about their skins. Naturally, nobody did, except old Sylvester, and he never heard the end of it. "A proper Trough-man'd rather die than miss a good fight." He's heard that sneer a thousand times since, if he's heard it once.

  A great fight! Best fight in years! Everybody agreed on that after it was all over. Of course, it always helps to have a local favorite, and it goes without saying that everybody was cheering for the Cat. Even the ones with their money on the Goatmonk, which was almost all of them.

  A great fight! Went on for quite a while, too. After a good ten minutes, the Goatmonk hadn't landed once on the Cat. Didn't sound like he even came close. And the Cat? Well, it's true, the first ten minutes she hadn't made a real mark on Father Venery, either. But she'd nicked him more than once, and in the meantime she'd turned half the furniture into kindling and put a few hundred serious ale drinkers through a crash exercise program that must have dropped eight tons, collective gross.

  The end was inevitable. One moment the Cat was over in a corner, making toothpicks out of a chair. The next thing anybody knew she was standing right in front of the Goatmonk, caught him smack off guard.

  Sssstttt. Plop. The moment of truth.

  When Leuwen got to that part of the story, I couldn't stop laughing for five minutes. Even Greyboar cracked a smile, mad as he was.

  Don't let anybody tell you there's no such thing as poetic justice.

  The Cat never even noticed. Sssstttt, plop, and she's on her way, hacking up a table down the room. But everybody else saw it. Total silence. Father Venery was just standing there, eyes popped out, couldn't even move.

  The Trio broke the spell. They convulsed to the floor.

  "Goatmonk no more!" howled the Weasel.

  "We'll call 'im Monkmonk f'r sure!" came McDoul.

  Yeah, that's where the name started, and it's stuck ever since. The Monkmonk. Father Chastity. You still see him around, now and again. Look for a very fat monk lying in a gutter somewhere, clutching a bottle of cheap wine, sobbing and wailing and crying out to the Lord. I
n a high-pitched voice.

  A great story, and under other circumstances Greyboar would have been the first to relish it.

  But at the moment, things were a bit sticky. Because the Goatmonk, you see, was beloved by the Church authorities in New Sfinctr, especially Luigi Carnale, Cardinal Fornacaese, his drinking buddy. And the Queen! Belladonna III thought the Goatmonk was a holy man, listened to every word he ever drooled. Main reason Father Venery had survived as long as he had, seeing as how half the fathers and husbands of the Sfinctrian aristocracy would have cut his throat in a minute.

  So naturally it wasn't but a few hours later that the Praetorian Guard came pouring into The Trough to arrest the Cat. Wasn't any problem for them, the arrest itself. The Cat was sitting in a corner, sharpening her sword, paying no attention to anything. Totally ignored the Guard when they grabbed her and hustled her into the paddy wagon. Off in her own world, like she often was. Strange, strange woman.

  But first, of course, the Guard had to get through The Trough. Packed solid, mind you, with proper Trough-men. Took a bit of time, that did. Time and trouble. A few months later, a friendly Guardsman I met in a tavern told me it was worse than the Second Battle of the Bundy.

  For the moment, however, the problem was that Greyboar was not entirely satisfied that the patrons had quite put up the good fight. I'll grant you, his demands were a bit unreasonable.

  "Two hours?" he roared. "Two lousy hours?" The Trough-men in the room blanched. Greyboar continued bellowing.

  "When they came after Lefty Davidovich we stood 'em off for four hours! Long enough for Lefty to make his escape!"

  "Those was just Stullens," whined Fergus.

  "And what about the Big Banjo?" demanded Greyboar. "When they came after him, we held 'em off for a whole day! They quit trying!"

  "Them was just porkers and such," whimpered Angus.

  "An' besides," sniveled Danny Boy, "the Big Banjo's hero of the people, the whole Flankn turned out that time."

  "Was just us this time," blubbered Scotty, "and you wasn't here, nor The Roach neither."

  But, like I said, Greyboar was in one of his rare unreasonable moods. He glared around the room. Everybody hung their heads. Then he cracked his knuckles, like the doom.

  "I am not pleased," he announced.

  Now and then, you'll sometimes hear it called The Running of the Bellies Through The Streets of New Sfinctr. Other times, The Great Flankn Stampede. But mostly, people call it The One Day The Trough Emptied Out.

  Casualties were minimal, however, thanks to O'Neal. Don't think it wasn't appreciated, either. Never been a day since somebody doesn't buy the poor fellow an ale pot and politely listen to him croak a word or two.

  Naturally—I believe I've mentioned before that O'Neal was not quite bright?—this was the time O'Neal chose to stand his ground.

  "And besides," he'd grumbled, just as the stampede got started, "she's only a woman. Shouldn't even be hanging around in here at all, she shouldn't, 'tisn't ladylike. So why should—" His last words spoken in a normal tone of voice, here faithfully recorded for posterity.

  I tried to tell Zulkeh the story, years later, but the wizard cut me off before I hardly even got started.

  "Bah!" he oathed. "Am I an ignoramus, to be told of The One Day The Trough Emptied Out? 'Tis the classic illustration in the literature of the theory of natural selection! Darwin Laebmauntsforscynneweëld himself devoted an entire chapter to the episode in his Evolution of Common Sense in Man."

  So it was O'Neal who saved the day. Kept Greyboar preoccupied while everybody else made their escape. The strangler even lingered over the job, not at all like his usual "give-'em-one-quick-crunch-and-move-on-to-the-next." He was bound and determined, it seemed, to prove that the euphemism "wring his neck" was not a euphemism. O'Neal even survived the experience, unlike his vocal cords. By the time Greyboar went after the rest, they had a good head start. And as quick as he is with his hands, Greyboar's not really built for a long stern chase, don't you know. Like I said, light casualties.

  Eventually, Greyboar came back to The Trough. I was there, perched on a barstool, chatting with Leuwen. Only customer in the place. (Not counting O'Neal, who didn't regain consciousness for hours.) Leuwen paled when Greyboar came in, but he stayed put. Couldn't have outrun the big guy anyway, as fat as he was.

  "I can't take sides in a brawl, Greyboar," squeaked Leuwen. "I'm a barkeep. Professional ethics, you know?"

  Greyboar glowered at him, but he let it go. Had a great respect for professional ethics, the strangler did.

  Quick as a snake, Leuwen put a pot of ale in front of Greyboar. "On the house," he squeaked.

  Greyboar took a drink.

  "And where was the Trio in B-Flat?" he demanded. "I was looking for those boys especial, looking to wring their mangy necks. I've been hearing Geronimo Jerry claimed to be my cousin last time he was in the Pile, so's the guards would treat him good. Was going to let it pass, but—!" He glowered. "Mangiest dogs in the Flankn, the Trio."

  "Actually," I responded, "if you hadn't been so all-fired eager to throttle the collective throat of the alehouse world, you'd have done the intelligent thing like I did and stuck around and let Leuwen finish the story."

  "Trio's in the Pile," said Leuwen, his voice sounding more like its usual self. "They was the last row, you know, between the Cat and the Guard. Fought on, the boys did, longer than anyone. Kept the Guard at bay all by themselves, the last minute or so. Pissed off the Guard so much they was the only ones besides the Cat herself what got arrested as well as beat up."

  Greyboar frowned, took another pull of ale. Then—I loved it!—said: "Good lads, the Trio. Always said so."

  "Cat's trial is tomorrow," I told him.

  Greyboar sat up straight. "We'll go! Stand by her side!"

  "Don't be stupid!" I snapped. "Think they'll let lowlifes like us—you especially!—anywhere near the Royal Court? Much less get inside! Leuwen's been telling me the Queen's ordered the whole Guard out for security at the trial. Not just the Guard, either. The Fifth Hussars are being brought into the city for crowd control. The Black Grenadiers've been assigned to patrol the city limits, keep out the peasants."

  "Supposed to be a whole column of peasants marching on the city tomorrow," commented Leuwen. "Got icons and everything, going to petition the Ecclesiarchs to declare the Cat a saint."

  "But I've got to see her!" cried Greyboar. "Got to figure out a way to get her out of this mess." He glared at his alepot like it was the cause of the problem. Then—surprise, surprise—he turned to me.

  "You're supposed to be the brains of the team, Ignace," he grumbled. "Think of something."

  Bite the tongue, bite the tongue, bite the tongue. That's what I had to tell myself, so's I wouldn't do something really stupid—really fatal, probably, given the mood of the moment—like make sarcastic remarks about self-professed philosophers.

  "What do you want me to do?" I complained. "I can't even figure out how we could get into the courtroom, much less rescue the Cat."

  "You'll never be able to spring her right now," said Leuwen. "You wouldn't believe the security! The Queen's in a rare fury, curse her soul. Have to wait till the trial's over, and the Cat's been sentenced. Then maybe things'll ease up a bit."

  "Cat'll be dead by then!" cried Greyboar. "Executed!"

  Leuwen shook his head. "Not a chance, Greyboar. The Cat's not for an early grave, that's sure. The Queen ordered Judge Rancor Jeffreys be put on the bench for the trial."

  Greyboar paled a little. Some of that was relief, sure, because with Jeffreys on the bench there wasn't any chance the Cat was in for a quick execution. But it wasn't much relief. Jeffreys didn't believe in quick hangings, except when he ordered judges hanged who didn't hand down enough death sentences.

  No, no, not the good Judge Rancor Jeffreys. Said it once, he'd said it a million times: "Quick hanging's no deterrent to your lowlife miscreant. Sneer at it, the scum do. Their lives are worthless to begin w
ith, so what do they care about a quick and easy snap of the neck? No, no, lords and ladies of the court! A thousand times no! Death by torture—that's the trick! Slow, horrible, lingering death—there's the ticket! Prolonged agony, endless torment—aye, the very thing!" And he prides himself on the ingenuity of his sentences, does the good Judge Rancor Jeffreys.

  "What you've got to do," mused Leuwen, "is find someone who can get into the trial. They can report back to you, tell you what happened. Especially, they can let you know what the Cat's sentence was. Then you might be able to figure out some way of rescuing the lady."

  Greyboar snorted. "And who do I know could get into the Royal Court? All my friends are lowlifes, and look the part."

  "One of your customers, maybe?" asked Leuwen. "Mostly noblemen, them. They could get in."

  "Are you nuts?" demanded Greyboar. "Sure, most of my customers are nobles. So what? I'm their strangler, not their bosom buddy. Wouldn't give me the time of day, they wouldn't, if they didn't need somebody choked."

  "Then what about them two girls show up here now and then? Never actually come into the place, I think they're too shy. But they've peeked in here a few times, looking for Ignace. Raised his prestige no end, I might add."

  "Angela and Jenny?" I asked.

  "That's the ones," said Leuwen. "Sure, why not have them get in? They could do it, too, I bet, if they wore the right kind of hoity-toity clothes. Guard wouldn't look at 'em twice, as cute and innocent looking as they are."

  Well, I thought the idea was terrible and I said so more than once, and quite forcefully and in no uncertain terms either. Imagine! Dragging two sweet young girls into something like this!

  But Greyboar thought it was a great idea. And when they heard the idea from Greyboar later that evening, Jenny and Angela thought it was a great idea too.

  "Oh, that'll be wonderful!" said Jenny. "Sure we'll try to help you spring your lady!" said Angela. And before you could say a thing, they were hauling out cloth by the yard and planning out their fancy dresses.