The Philosophical Strangler(27)

I hate that man, was the overriding thought in my mind. May he contract leprosy. May he stumble and disfigure himself. May he suffer from an incurable deadly disease which strikes him down before he takes another step. May a meteorite plunge through the roof and turn him into a crater. May—

And so on, and so forth.

No man in the world has any right to be that handsome.

It was so disgusting. Mind you, I’m not normally given to envy over such things. There’s no need for it. Your normal “handsome man” is an object of ridicule. Most of them are pretty-boy types, which the girls may swoon over but which any solid male bellied up to a bar can instantly dismiss with a sneer. “Cream puff. Break him like a twig.”

Alas. I doubted that any man in The Trough could have broken this fellow, other than Greyboar and maybe a couple of your finest muggers. He wasn’t just impossibly handsome, he was also—brace yourself for another sample of life’s fundamental unfairness—tall, broad-shouldered, lean-hipped, flat-bellied, the whole works. His stride had a light, pantherish quality to it, which went quite oddly with the soulful sadness in his gray eyes. And his hands! Oh, the injustice of it all! Women would gaze on those finely-shaped, long-fingered, well-manicured objects with fascinated curiosity, and decide he was undoubtedly a charming fellow. Men would examine the size of the sinewy things, note how well they undoubtedly wrapped themselves around the hilt of the sword scabbarded to his waist, and decide likewise.

The sword, naturally, was not only a finely-made rapier with a truly splendid hilt and basket, it was also obviously well used.

By the time Leuwen brought the wretch to our table I had damned him to a thousand deaths. Silently, of course. Alas, Greyboar didn’t share a natural male reaction to such things. And, fact is, should the big guy have chosen not to back me up in a little contretemps—he’d been known to desert me in my hour of need—things might have gotten a little tricky if the stranger took offense at my conduct.

True, the man was obviously an Ozarine. The dark complexion and the typical Ozarine cast to his features gave him away even before he opened his mouth and exhibited that grotesque Ozarine accent. But I was not one of those dolts who thought all Ozarines were overcivilized fops. Overcivilized fops do not, as a rule, conquer half the world.

Greyboar gazed up at the fellow and spoke.

“May I be of assistance, sirrah?” Yeah, just like that. Polite as can be.

The stranger bowed—I hated that bow; courteous as you could ask for, without a trace of foppery; there’s no justice—and replied: “Indeed, sirrah, such is my very hope.” He gestured to an unoccupied chair at our table. “May I?”

I scowled, but Greyboar immediately nodded his permission. After the man sat down, he said: “Allow me to introduce myself, gentlemen. I am an artist. My name is Benvenuti Sfondrati-Piccolomini. If I am not mistaken, I believe I have the honor of addressing the famous professional strangler Greyboar and his agent”—here he nodded politely at me and shrugged apologetically—“whose name, alas, is not known to me.”

Naturally, I started to deny everything, but Greyboar cut me off. “His name’s Ignace. And I’m Greyboar.”

Since there was now no hope of claiming to be misrecognized, I decided to brush the fellow off.

“What d’you want?” I demanded, in my best brush-off tone. “We’re busy.”

Alas, the fellow took no offense. Instead, to my surprise, he beamed cheerfully. No simpering foppish smile, either. One of those manly-type grins. Naturally, his teeth were blindingly white. Naturally, the debonair dark mustache set them off perfectly.

“Perhaps you can help me with a problem.” He reached back and lifted the strange object he’d been carrying. He turned it toward us. Now, finally, I recognized the thing. Artist, he’d said. Sure enough, the object was a portrait. A very large portrait. Oil on canvas.

Unfortunately for my amour propre, I was in mid-quaff when he turned the portrait. Seeing it full on, I couldn’t stop myself from spewing ale all over the table.

Greyboar, whether from some weird premonition or simply because he has the nervous reactions of iron ore, simply took a long, casual draught of his ale pot. Then, after a satisfied belch, announced:

“Quite a good portrait of the Baron.” He wiped foam from his lips. “Excellent, actually—though I’m no connoisseur of the arts.”

“Connoyser be damned!” I hissed. I was on my feet like a shot.

“Blackmail!” I pronounced. “Choke him, Greyboar! Burke him, I say! He’s a filthy rotten blackmailer!”