The Philosophical Strangler

  The Weasel cleared his throat again.

  "Well, it's like this, Greyboar. We just got out o' th'Pile and natural we right off headed down to th'Trough fer a brew, when what'd ye know but what Leuwen explained t'us as to what ye was inquirin' as t'our whereabouts, an' so—" He cleared his throat again. "—an' so we's consulted 'mongst ourselfes an' decided as to what would prob'bly be best t'come see you right off, rather then wait an' all until y'found us on y'own an' all." Another throat clearing. "What wit' y'blood in y'eye."

  And then, of course, they fell to quarreling. The Weasel and McDoul swore on the graves of the mothers they never knew that it had all been Geronimo Jerry's idea to claim Greyboar as his cousin so that the porkers in the Pile would pay back the money G.J. lent to them at his normal usurious rates. Geronimo Jerry swore on the graves of a long line of fictitious Grenadine landholders—hidalgos one and all, to hear him say it—that he'd been talked into by the other two on account of their insatiable lust for the little finer things of life what make a long stay in the dungeon tolerable and which can only be gotten from bribing guards and how are you supposed to bribe guards in the first place when you're broke and so what better way to do it but lend them money at 200% the weekly interest—don't ask me where they got the seed money, I couldn't follow it—and then of course the problem is getting the great surly sadistic brutes to pay back the money and how else to do it but claim the world's greatest strangler as your cousin what dotes on you and it was all McDoul's idea in the first place. That was a nice little touch, that last twist, because before you knew it the lineup was shifting and now it was Erlic admitting as to how, well, yes, and it had been McDoul who'd thought it up first and Erlic and G.J. had just gone along because sure and McDoul swore as he'd talked it all over with Greyboar before they'd gotten pitched into the Pile. And then—your great chancellors and ministers haven't got a thing on the Trio when it comes to treacherous alliances and realpolitik—the wind started veering again when McDoul demanded as to how he could have spoken to Greyboar and gotten permission ahead of time when everybody knew Greyboar had been in Prygg hiding out from the porkers and wasn't it actually—this to Geronimo Jerry—Erlic who'd claimed he'd gotten a letter from the great strangler in Prygg graciously giving his nod to the impersonation and of course he and G.J. had taken the Weasel's word for it since wasn't it true that Erlic always handled the Trio's correspondence on account of McDoul and G.J. were wretched orphans what had never learned to read and write—a bald-faced lie, that; any one of the Trio can distinguish in the blink of an eye between the denominations of every known currency in the world—being as they had been forced to work in the sweatshops since they was tots. And then—

  Well, I was enjoying the whole thing, I love to watch masters of a trade at their work, but Greyboar was in one of his impatient moods so he cut it short. He could always cut through long-winded argumentation, Greyboar. Three quick squeezes and the Trio fell as silent as the tomb.

  "I don't care about you claiming to be my cousin," he grumbled, after he resumed his seat. "I would have let it go, anyway." He chuckled. "Kind of amused me, actually, cozzening the porkers like that."

  Then he gave them a sour look, and said: "I hate to admit it, but you three worthless hounds happen to be in my good graces at the moment. On account of how I heard you fought to the last gasp when the Guard came to arrest the Cat."

  "Ye wunnerful Cat!" hacked Erlic.

  "Natural we did'r best to defen' th'Lady o' the Flankn," choked McDoul.

  "Th'Light o' Sfinctria," gasped Geronimo Jerry.

  "Speakin' o' last gasps an' all," said Erlic, massaging his throat, "ye wouldna 'appen t'ave th'odd pot o' ale lyin' about now, would ye? Thirsty work, bein' throttled an' all."

  Jenny went to get some ale, and soon enough the Trio were sitting about on the floor drinking their pots and cheerful as could be. Not surprising, this was one of the few times they'd ever enjoyed Greyboar's good graces.

  "How did you get out of the Pile, anyway?" I asked. "For that matter, how'd you get out the time before that?"

  The Trio grinned in unison.

  "We informers," Erlic announced proudly.

  "On th'highest levels, no less," added McDoul.

  "Report direct to th'Queen's Inspector General, we do," said G.J.

  "An' to the Cruds!" cried Erlic. He was positively beaming.

  "Been interviewed by th'Angel Jimmy Jesus hisself," boasted McDoul.

  "Come all th'way from the occupation in Prygg, 'e did," bragged G.J., "just t'question us personal."

  Well, I believe I'll just summarize the story. Always enjoyed the Trio's dialogue myself, but I admit it gets a tad difficult for the uninitiated to follow. And I'll say it now, before I even begin, that you have to hand it to the Trio—nobody else could have pulled this one off.

  They'd been in the Pile for some crime or other. I don't remember the details, but it must have been a doozy because Jeffreys had sentenced them to the lowest dungeons. Then, as it turned out, the artist Benvenuti wound up in the very same cell, after he got convicted of defrauding the Church.

  Greyboar interrupted them at that point, wanting to make sure they were talking about the same Benvenuti. But it only took the Trio a minute to satisfy him. It was Benny all right. The description was perfect.

  (Weird coincidence, I thought at the time. Later, in light of ensuing events, I realized that it was the inexorable workings of fate. Shit happening, like it always does.)

  Getting back to the Trio's tale, what did you know but what the great lawyer Jauncey Utterwert Muroidea IV was the next one pitched into the cell with them. He'd somehow fallen out of momentary favor with the Queen, which is not hard to do. Greyboar and I recognized the name, of course, since Muroidea was one of the scummiest lawyers of Sfinctria (i.e., the Scum of Scum). Known as "the bonestripper" in the slums of the city, Muroidea. You could satisfy your regular lawyer with a pound of flesh nearest the heart, but not Muroidea—he always got the full measure.

  Muroidea didn't survive but a few minutes in the cell. The Trio would have slit his throat on general principles anyway, but beyond that—well, no need to go into the grisly details. Let's just say that they saw to it that there were no remains of Muroidea and leave it at that.

  Then, no sooner had they disposed of Muroidea when who should pop up into their cell, out of a tunnel he'd dug from below, but the famous Underground Artist of New Sfinctr, Vincent van Goph? The great painter sketched a triptych on the walls of their cell. Then, just as he'd finished, the porkers came into the cell looking for Muroidea, who had just been pardoned by the Queen and named her new Royal Adjudicator. (The Queen's favor is fickle—you can fall into it as fast as you can out.)

  Vincent van Goph made his escape down the tunnel, along with the artist Benvenuti, but the Trio hadn't managed it because G.J. had gotten stuck in the hole. Again, Greyboar interrupted, to make sure that Benvenuti had actually made his escape. The Trio assured us that he had. But . . .

  Being lost in the labyrinth of tunnels beneath the dungeons of New Sfinctr didn't really qualify as much of an "escape." The tales about those tunnels were enough to terrify a demon. But that was the last they'd seen of Benny. Disappearing down the hole.

  So there they were—caught red-handed in an escape attempt right after vanishing a lawyer who'd just been appointed the Queen's Royal Adjudicator. A dark moment, you'd think, in the life of desperate criminals.

  Not them. Sure, and your average felons would have been for the high jump. But they were always quick-witted, the Trio.

  So right away, after being hauled before the Queen's Inspector General, they started in spinning a tale of how they had been cowering in the cell, listening to Muroidea and that other beast, what's-his-name, planning to cut their throats before the lawyer and his cohort made good their escape so that the Trio wouldn't be able to warn the Queen of the coming attempt on her life.

  What coming attempt on her life? Why, the one Muroidea boasted abo
ut. Rubbing his hands with glee, he was, cackling at the thought of the poor Queen sprawled on the throne, her life's blood pouring out of a hundred wounds. A horrible plot! Masterminded, of course, by the Dark Duke.

  What Dark Duke? Muroidea's boss, the archvillain of the conspiracy. Well, no, the Trio didn't know exactly who it was, but it was plain as day from listening to Muroidea talking with that other vicious assassin, what's-his-name, that the Dark Duke had to be one of the great nobles of Sfinctria. The Trio would have figured that out anyway, because nobody else but a great nobleman could afford to have a thousand assassins on his payroll.

  What thousand assassins? Why, the ones Muroidea told the other scoundrel, what's-his-name, that the Dark Duke had gotten infiltrated into every level of the Sfinctrian government. Hundreds of 'em in the Praetorian Guard alone.

  Every level of the Queen's government? Naturally, on account of how this Muroidea and his fellow cabalist—what's-his-name—were the trickiest plotters you ever ran into. Why, hadn't Muroidea even fooled the Queen herself into appointing him the Royal Adjudicator? Of course, when he heard the porkers coming into the cell, natural and he'd had to take it on the lam, even forgetting to slit the Trio's throats, on account of how he must have figured the Queen's men were on to him and of course he couldn't afford to be caught and tortured where he might spill his guts because didn't Muroidea know every detail of the whole plot, even including the identity of the Dark Duke's mole in the highest levels of Ozar's greatest espionage agency, the Commission to Repel Unbridled Disruption?

  And, of course, that was the masterstroke. Because as soon as the Crud adviser who was sitting in on the Trio's interrogation heard that, he screeched like a castrated pig and demanded that the Trio be held for questioning by the Angel Jimmy Jesus himself, the Director of the Cruds. And, sure enough, as soon as he got the news the Angel raced in to interview the Trio.

  From then on, of course, they were in the gravy. The Angel Jimmy Jesus was undoubtedly the world's champion paranoid, and he'd been saying for years that the Cruds had been infiltrated by moles, and now—at last!—he had proof. Mind you, nobody in their right mind would have believed the Trio if they'd said the sun rose in the east and set in the west. The porkers tried to tell that to the Angel, but he wasn't having any of it. Then again, nobody had ever accused the Angel Jimmy Jesus of being in his right mind.

  So there they were. Released from prison, now informers for the Cruds, hot on the trail of the Dark Duke.

  "A master criminal, 'e is, th'Dark Duke," intoned Erlic solemnly.

  " 'As 'is treach'rous fingers in ev'ry pie, 'e does," added McDoul piously.

  " 'Specially 'mongst lowlifes like what 'angs around y'rotten dives sech as th'Trough," continued Geronimo Jerry, shaking his head sadly, "which, o' course, is what necess'tates us t'spend so much o' our days there, knockin' down one pot 'o ale after 'nuther, which we couldna afford 'cept for th'Cruds is payin' fer it an' all, so's we can ferret out th'treacherous plot of th'Dark Duke."

  And that explained, naturally, why they'd been forced—much though it pained them to raise a hand against the Queen's finest—to form the Cat's last guard in the brawl at The Trough. Keep their cover, don't you know? And it worked like a charm. Not only did they get released, but they even got a raise out of the Cruds.

  Chapter 19.

  A Plot Is Hatched

  Once they finished their tale, Greyboar explained to them what

  we wanted. The Trio pondered the problem deeply—three ale pots' worth apiece.

  "Th'information regardin' th'layout o' th'Pile, now," mused Erlic, "aye an' that's no th'problem."

  "Get it from Vincent, we will," explained McDoul. "Aye an' there's not a thing th'lad dinna know about th'plan o' th'Pile."

  "Will he help us?" I asked. "I mean, why should he?"

  So the Trio explained that after they'd been pitched back into their old cell, where they waited for the Angel Jimmy Jesus to arrive, who should pop up again but Vincent van Goph? It seemed the artist hadn't been fully satisfied with some of the detail work on his triptych. While he finished it up, the Trio struck up a conversation with him.

  "Disgruntled, 'e is," said Geronimo Jerry, "at th'sorry state o' th'Queen's art stocks, which o' course ye'll be understandin', is where 'e obtains 'is own supplies. Quite th'proper thief 'e is ins'own right, Vincent."

  Then they began quarreling as to the precise position occupied in the pantheon of thievery by the Underground Artist. But Greyboar brought them back to earth. The gist of what came out of it was that Vincent had offered, if the Trio would provide him with some good quality paints, to sketch their portraits on some appropriate wall in the dungeons. Not really thinking they'd ever follow through on the deal, the Trio had made certain arrangements for leaving a note for Vincent in the event they should obtain his supplies. In a corner of the ale cellar under The Trough, as it happened.

  "No wonder Leuwen's been grumbling about somebody stealing his ale stock!" exclaimed Greyboar. "Must be this Vincent fellow, burrowing into the cellar from below and making off with the odd keg."

  The Trio nodded their heads, their expressions showing great disapproval of the sorry moral state of the thief Vincent van Goph.

  "Inexcus'ble conduct on 'is part, 'o course," intoned McDoul piously, "but ye canna 'ardly blame th'lad. Says th'Trough's ale is th'best in th'world."

  "That it is," agreed Greyboar. "So you think if we provide him with good paints he'd find out for us the exact location of the Cat's cell? Well, let's try it."

  Then Greyboar told me to go out and buy plenty of good artist's paints. I was tempted to argue the point—cost us a pretty penny out of the stash I'd been storing up, don't you know?—but I decided to let it pass. "Never try to reason with a love-struck man," the wise man says, "when he's got hands the size of bulldogs."

  Within two days the Trio had made the contact with Vincent, and it took but two days longer for Vincent to return with the needed information. Interesting tidbits he'd picked up, too.

  "That scumbag!" roared Greyboar, stomping around the room. "That lecher! That—that priestly vulture!"

  The focus of the strangler's ire was upon Luigi Carnale, Cardinal Fornacaese. For, it now turned out, the Cardinal had apparently had an ulterior motive in demanding the immuration of the Cat in the heretics' quarter of the Pile. An ulterior motive, let me say, which cast a definite shadow on the Cardinal's vows of chastity. Admittedly, casting a shadow on Cardinal Fornacaese's vows of chastity was a bit like casting a shadow on a solar eclipse.

  Vincent had reported that the Cat had been immured in a cell buried deep in the heretics' quarters. That much was expected, of course, although it was nice to have the artist's exact pinpointing of the cell's location. The more interesting tidbit, however, was that the Cardinal was having a tunnel dug from his own chambers—his bedchamber, to be precise—to the Cat's cell. True, his motives in so opening a line of communication with the Cat were unknown. Perhaps he simply wanted to be able to take her confession, so she could die in a state of grace. The various means of restraint which he was simultaneously having attached to his great bed, however, argued otherwise. Not to mention his long-standing reputation as one of the world's legendary satyrs. Not to mention his not-so-long-standing but not-so-recent-either lust for the body of the Cat.

  "He was ogling her back in Blain," growled the strangler. "I should have choked him then."

  The rest of us kept silent. Best policy around Greyboar in a snit, don't you know? Eventually the big guy calmed down and we started trying to work out a plan.

  "How about Vincent?" asked Jenny. "Would he help us—you know, dig us a tunnel to the Cat's cell?"

  Still on that "us" business, the two little imps. I'd tried to get our meeting place changed, so as to get the girls out of the picture, but Greyboar insisted that it was best to hatch our plots at their house. Less chance of being overheard by slobs who'd squeal to the porkers for a penny. The Trio had readily agreed, mainly—I susp
ected darkly—because Jenny and Angela made their depraved hearts go pitter-patter. And that was another thing I didn't like about the whole business!

  I tried to warn the girls of the horrid reputations of the Trio—especially that goat McDoul—but they treated me like I was retarded.

  "Now, now, Iggy," cooed Jenny, chucking me under the chin, "you know Angela and I aren't interested in any men."

  "Except you, Iggy," cooed Angela, grinning like a hussy, "and that's 'cause you're just the cutest little thing."

  Anyway, the Trio poured cold water on Jenny's proposal. As they explained it, Vincent wouldn't be any help except as a source of information. This, for two reasons. Point One: Vincent was practically a midget, so his tunnels weren't big enough for what the Trio called "normal-sized" men—translation: beer-bellied slobs. This part made me wince, because naturally Jenny and Angela started squealing with pleasure and right off proposed that the two of them and me carry out the rescue, since we were all small and could fit in the tunnels.

  Fortunately, that plan fell through because of Point Two: Vincent was also a temperamental artist with his head in the clouds and wouldn't be bothered with digging any tunnels that weren't necessary for his art. Quite the rugged individualist, Vincent, as the Trio portrayed him.

  So we were back to square one. And, now that it's all over, I'll admit that maybe it wasn't such a bad idea to bring the girls in on the plotting and the scheming. Fact is, even though they were young as the morning and fresh as the dew and innocent as the lambs of the field, they had fiendish good brains. So it was Angela who actually came up with The Plan.

  "You know," she said, peering at McDoul closely, "you look a lot like the Cardinal. He used to come over to the Baron's house now and then and I've met him up close. I mean, if you cut your hair decent and shaved off that horrid great beard you've got growing on you like moss on a tree. And even though the Cardinal's not a hunchback, he always walks all stooped over like he was being crushed by the weight of his sins, which he probably is, so if we cleaned you up and dressed you right, we could pass you off as the Cardinal and maybe that's how we could rescue the Cat."