The Philosophical Strangler(113)

Greyboar, of course, had no trouble at all keeping a straight face. Naturally, he got interested in the distinction, and started asking questions. So we had to sit there for an hour in that cold, dank, stinky, dimly-lit grotto while Maurice blathered on. It seems—

Oh, yeah. I suppose I should pause in order to give you a proper description of what they call the “locale.” Hm. A bit difficult, that. Let’s do it this way:

Close your eyes and try to imagine a troll’s lair. Try real hard. Got it?

Add raw sewage.

Okay, moving right along, Maurice insisted on giving us a long-winded discourse on the fine distinctions between:

1) Ogres and trolls. This mainly involves—you’re getting the troll version, mind—an extra little bone in the ankles, certain minute and subtle differences in the shape of the talons, and a vast difference in cranial capacity. I.e., they look exactly alike except trolls say they’re smarter.

2) Trollus horribilis vs. Trollus sapiens. This mainly involves the same picayune differences (see above). If this does not make sense to you, join the club.

3) Trollus sapiens, civilized and couth, vs. Trollus sapiens, au naturelle. This mainly involves dietary habits, along with a fine distinction in ecological niche. To wit: Trollus sapiens au naturelle eats anything, anywhere, anytime. Trollus sapiens, civilized and couth, on the other hand, eats anything, anywhere, anytime—so long as in so doing they do not disturb the ecological balance of their habitat. And cheese and chocolates, of course. And whole wheat bread, bean sprouts and something called tofu.





Finally done with this tedious tripe, Maurice got around to asking us what we were doing in the sewer. Greyboar explained, more or less. The troll got an uncertain look on his face (I think that’s what those furrowed wrinkles signified, anyway) and scratched his jaw with a talon.

“Dunno,” Maurice muttered. “Not supposed to let anyone through that hatch.”

“Says who?” I demanded. My voice was perhaps a bit more shrill than the circumstances warranted. I wouldn’t normally get peevish with a giant troll in his lair. But I really wanted to get out of that place. If I needed to explain why, you wouldn’t be reading this book. You couldn’t read, period.

“The CEO of the Infernal Regions, that’s who!” Maurice snapped. He hesitated. “Well . . . I suppose I shouldn’t boast. I’ve never actually had the honor of meeting the Top Devil in person. The Lord of Evil communicates with me through channels, you understand.”

The horrid face got more horrid still. I realized I was looking at a troll version of a scowl.

“Kind of resent it, actually. He always sends imps up here with my orders, instead of proper devils. He really ought to show me a little more respect.” Now, the monster was practically whining. “This is an important post, you know. The only thing standing between the Infernal Regions and possible invaders is that hatch.”

I refrained from pointing out the obvious—what idiot is going to invade the Infernal Regions?—and went for the main chance. “Time for some working-class action, then! A slowdown, by G—by the Devil!”

Greyboar nodded solemnly. “Ignace’s right. A work-to-rule campaign. We slid by on account of you were all tied up carrying out your multitude of other responsibilities with meticulous precision. Obviously, you need some help. A couple of imps, maybe, to serve as your flunkeys. A promotion!”

Maurice growled. Growled again. “Got that right!” he snarled. A moment later, he was heaving himself erect.

“This way,” he commanded. “We’ll show the bosses what’s what!”





After he opened the hatch and saw who was waiting on the other side, Maurice changed his tune.

“Zulkeh!” he bellowed. “You swine!”

The troll glared at me and Greyboar. “You didn’t tell me that he was on the other side!”

I didn’t know what to say. Greyboar shrugged. “You didn’t ask,” he pointed out, reasonably enough. “But if you had—”

Maurice was not mollified. He started to shake a huge fist in Greyboar’s face. But the wizard distracted him.

“Come, come, my dear troll!” reproved Zulkeh. “Surely you’re not still peeved over that monograph?”

“Peeved?” roared Maurice. He stooped and stuck his head through the hatchway, spitting in Zulkeh’s face. “You slandered me! And after all the hospitality I showed you, too!”

The sorcerer immediately matched the troll’s umbrage with his own. “Slander?” he cried. “Do I hear me aright? Slander?”

Zulkeh was practically spitting himself. He was hopping about in a funny little dance. You know the one: the scholar, critiqued and disputatious.