The Philosophical Strangler(2)

But it was just so exasperating!

“Still and all,” continued Greyboar, like a glacier on its course, “I’m convinced there’s more to it. ‘Wine, women and song,’ you say, and that’s fine for you. You’re a sybarite of the epicurean persuasion. But I, it is clear to me, incline rather to the stoic, perhaps even the ascetic.”

“You’re driving me mad with this philosophical foolishness!” I exclaimed. “And will you please curl up your hands?”

“Sorry.” He has long arms, Greyboar, it’s an asset in his line of work. But the sound of fingernails clittery-clattering along the cobblestones gets on my nerves.

By now we had reached the end of the alley and were onto a main street. I looked around and spotted a hansom not far away. I whistled, and it was but a minute later that we clambered aboard. It was an extravagance, to be sure, but we were flush with cash and I’d no desire to walk all the way back into the city.

“Take us to The Sign of the Trough,” I told the driver. “It’s in the Flankn, right off—”

“I know where it is,” grumbled the cabbie. “It’ll cost you extra, you know?”

I sighed, but didn’t argue the point. Cabbies always charged extra for going into the Thieves’ Quarter. Can’t say as I blamed them. It was one of the disadvantages of living in the Flankn. But the advantages made it worth the while—hardly any porkers to bother you, hidey-holes galore, a friendly neighborhood (certainly no pestersome bullyboys!), a vast network of information, customers always knew where to find you, etc.

As the hansom made its way back into New Sfinctr, Greyboar continued to drone on about philosophy’s central place in human existence. I struggled manfully to control my temper, but at one point I couldn’t resist taking a dig.

“You’re only doing this philosophy nonsense because of Gwendolyn,” I grumbled.

Of course, that made him furious. This is not, by the way, a stunt I recommend for the amateur—infuriating Greyboar, that is. But I’m the world’s expert on the subject, and I know exactly when I can get away with it.

His jaws clamped shut, his face turned red, he bestowed a ferocious glare on me.

“What’s my sister got to do with it?” he demanded.

I glared right back at him.

“It’s obvious! You never gave a second thought—you never gave a first thought!—to this philosophy crap until Gwendolyn said you had the philosophy of a weasel.”

He looked away from me, his face like a stone. I felt bad, then. He was such a formidable monster, that I forgot sometimes he had feelings just like other people. And before their fight, he and his sister had been very close.

Still, it shut him up. The rest of the ride into the Flankn took place in a cold silence. Uncomfortable, yes, but it was a damned sight better than having to listen to him prattling on about epistemology and ontology and whatnot.

The cabbie dropped us off in front of our lodgings. We had some small rooms on the top floor of a typical Flankn flophouse. I paid the cabbie and we headed for the door.

Just as we started up the steps to the landing, a voice sounded behind us.

“Hold there, sirrahs!”

We turned and beheld a bizarre sight, even for the Flankn. A small man stood before us, clad in the most ridiculous costume: billowing green cloak, baggy yellow pants tied up at the ankles, tasseled slippers curling up at the toes, his head bound in a bright red strip of cloth. A “turban,” it’s called.

“Who’re you?” I demanded.

The fellow glanced about. “Please, lower your voice! My business is confidential.”

“Confidential, is it?” boomed Greyboar. “Well, out with it!”

The man hissed his agitation. “Quietly, please! It is not to be discussed on the public thoroughfares!” He cupped his ear.

Greyboar snorted. “It’s as good a place as any. There’s none to listen but the urchins of the street, who’re loyal to their own.” The strangler gazed benignly over the refuse, debris and tottering tenements that encompassed a typical street of the Flankn. His eyes fell upon a ne’er-do-well lounging against a wall some steps beyond. “And the occasional idler, of course.” Greyboar cracked his knuckles; it sounded like a coal mine caving in. The layabout found urgent business elsewhere.

“Nevertheless,” continued the turbaned one, “I must insist on privacy. I represent a most important individual, who demands the utmost discretion.”

Left to his own, Greyboar would have quitted the fellow with no further ado. But that’s why he needed an agent.

“Important individual, you say? No doubt he’s prepared to pay handsomely for our services?” I spoke softly, since there was no reason to aggravate a potential client. Strangler’s customers were always a twitchy lot.