The Philosophical Strangler(10)

“I fear not.” He scowled. “It’s not the loss of the money that bothers me, it’s the dislocation—the interruption of my habits, the distractions. It’ll make it difficult to concentrate on my Languor.”

“You’re mad! The main thing the little—pardon, His Puissant Pupness—wants is for the hubbub to die down. After all, if we’re caught, how’s he to know we wouldn’t sing like birds? No, no, Greyboar, take my word for it—the one thing you can be sure His Pimple will be doing is to move heaven and earth to get the hunt called off.”

“Under other circumstances, no doubt he would.” Greyboar rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “I think our best bet’s to make for Prygg. I know the captain of the guard at the southeast gate; we can bribe him. And once we get to Prygg, Magrit’ll put us up till the heat’s off. Have to do a job for her, of course. No freebies from Magrit. Proper witch, she is.”

“What’re you running on—” A queasy feeling came to my stomach. “Wait a minute. What d’you mean, ‘under other circumstances’?”

Greyboar looked at me, surprised. “Those circumstances under which the Prince would call off the hunt.”

“But why wouldn’t he—” A very queasy feeling. “You’ve seen him!”

“Last night.”

“Why? Rashkuta had the money—I collected it.”

“Money.” He waved the subject away. “To refute his disrespect for philosophy. Imagine—hiring me to strangle my own guru!”

“To refute his disrespect for philosophy?”

“Well, naturally, what did you expect? I found it necessary to acquaint him with the second law of thermodynamics.”

“You—what? What did you say to him?”

“Say to him? Nothing.”

I was on my feet. “What did you do to the Prince?”

“I aligned him with Time’s Arrow.”

I was hopping up and down in a fury. “What does all that gibberish mean?”

Greyboar grinned, a cavern in the abyss.

“The Prince has achieved maximum entropy.”





PART I: THESIS





Chapter 1.

The Sign of the Trough

But that was all in the past. Ancient history. Forgotten unpleasantness.

Things were looking up!

First of all, we were back in New Sfinctr.

Not many people, I’ll admit, would share my delight at returning to New Sfinctr. Home town or not, the simple truth is that the place is a pesthole, even by the standards of Grotum. “Armpit of the continent,” they call it, when they’re not calling it something obscene. But it was a great city for a strangler and his agent. Business opportunities everywhere, you tripped over them.

As soon as we arrived back in town, of course, I headed straight off to The Sign of the Trough. Best ale in the world they’ve got at The Trough. Although I’ll admit The Swill As You Will in Prygg comes in a very close second. And the Free Lunch in the Mutt is always entitled to honorable mention.

But before we go any further in our story, I should take the time here to describe the setting. Much of the action—and most of the thinking—will transpire in this sacred place.

The lowlife’s temple. The world’s finest alehouse.

The Sign of the Trough.

It’s in the Flankn. New Sfinctr’s Thieves’ Quarter, as I believe I mentioned. Right in the very center of it, in fact. The heart and soul of the Flankn, The Trough’s often been called.

From the outside, The Trough looks like a huge building—bunch of buildings, maybe, all crunched into each other; it’s hard to tell—some three or four stories tall, depending on which angle you look at it and how drunk you are. (Rumor has it that some of the towers are five stories tall. Could be.) The thing covers an entire block, and—I’m talking frivolous architecture, here, not serious drinking—makes absolutely no rhyme or reason.

Just think of an edifice put together by some kind of architect’s crazed patron saint in a drunken stupor. Insane, and huge.

But it’s way, way bigger than it looks.

On the inside, that is. Don’t ask me how it works, but every real Trough-man knows that The Trough is bigger inside than out. The famous mathematician Riemann Laebmauntsforscynneweëld once visited The Trough. Rumor has it that’s where non-Euclidean geometry got started.

So we’ll skip over the rest of the exterior description. Who cares, anyway? The ale’s inside.

Though I might point out, as we head for the door, the huge feeding trough hanging over the entrance. It’s The Trough’s only sign. Stolen, they say, from some minor farm god’s hogpen. Wouldn’t know, myself. I didn’t consort with deities. Even the lesser ones were bad news, even though the Church said they didn’t exist.