I don’t know what it is about rich people that they always have to have a “study.” Not the scholarly types, as a rule, your robber barons. I’ll give Avare this much, his study actually had a lot of books in it. Nary a stuffed animal in the room. And the books all looked well read, too.
Of course, his library was highly specialized. One whole wall was taken up by much-thumbed copies of The Encyclopedia of Exploitation—all 788 volumes, he had the entire set. Another wall was taken up by leather-bound first editions. Top-flight stuff. All the great classics on the subject ever written by either one of the world’s great scholarly clans: Rockefeller Laebmauntsforscynneweëld’s trilogy: Plundering the Poor, Pillaging the Plebes and Peeling the Paupers. J. P. Sfondrati-Piccolomini’s Beg and Be Damned. On and on.
Secular writings, mostly, but he had a fair number of the Ecclesiarchy’s “Tomes for Troubled Times,” too—for instance, Paolo Pipa, Cardinal Bufo’s The Sin of Wages.
His proudest literary possession was encased in glass and mounted on the wall above the fireplace. The first time I saw it, I couldn’t believe it. But Avare assured us it was genuine. Only four authentic copies in the world, according to him. An ancient piece of vellum, bearing a fragment of the legendary Primitive Accumulation of Capital, by Genghis Laebmauntsforscynneweëld.
As usual, Avare greeted us from his easy chair by the fireplace. In all the hours I spent with the old guy, I never once saw him out of the chair. “At my age,” he’d explained, “one must conserve one’s energies. My legs have long since withered to sticks, but one doesn’t need legs to ruin rivals.”
The truth is, Avare looked like he was already a corpse. The twitching fingers and the moving eyeballs were the main signs of life. When he talked, even his voice sounded like it came from the grave. Hoarse, faint, dry as dust.
“Be seated, gentlemen,” he rasped. “Henry, pour these good men some brandy.”
As soon as our brandies were before us, Avare raised his own glass in a feeble semblance of a toast. Greyboar and I drank deeply. The one downside to the whole business, I thought at the moment, was that we’d not be tasting any more of that terrific brandy. A sad thought. I drowned my sorrows. So did Greyboar.
“Goodness,” said Avare, “you are both certainly thirsty tonight. Henry, leave the bottle next to the gentlemen. I shall ring for you when I need further assistance.” Here he gestured to the small bell which he always kept by his side. But I wasn’t worried about the bell. As feeble as Avare was, he’d never get hold of it before Greyboar got hold of his weasand. Very quick-moving, the chokester, when his mind was on business and not philosophy.
Henry left the room, closing the door behind him. A nice thick door, I noticed, perfect for deadening sound. Yes, indeed, things were looking good.
Greyboar was uncomfortable, fidgeting. And, of course, Avare noticed immediately. There was nothing decrepit about the old man’s mind.
“You seem ill at ease, Sirrah Greyboar,” he commented. “Not at all your normal self.”
Greyboar muttered some silly stuff about indigestion. The old man wasn’t fooled for a moment, I could tell. And the worst of it was that Avare decided to get right down to business instead of whiling away a pleasant half hour in well-brandied conversation. I decided then and there that I’d sneak the brandy bottle out with us when we left. Have to make sure Greyboar didn’t notice, of course. The chokester would be bound to make a stink about it, yapping on and on about the fine points of professional ethics.
“I have requested your presence tonight,” said Avare, “because I have concluded that yet another of my would-be heirs has demonstrated that he is unfit for the inheritance.”
He frowned peevishly. “Really, I am so tired of the whole business. You’d think that one of my descendants would show some capability. I’m on to the fourth generation now. Such a sad and sorry lot they’ve proven to be! Most distressing! It’s why I cling to life, you know? Personally, I’d as soon be done with it. At my age, the grave is a thing to long for rather than fear. But I have a grave responsibility to the family fortune. It’s my plain and simple duty to ensure that it falls into competent hands.”
Not to worry, old-timer, I thought to myself. Your toil and trouble is almost over. I made a little motion to Greyboar, signifying: okay, choke the geezer and let’s get out of here.
But, naturally, that was too simple for the great philosopher! Oh no, he had to make a great ethical issue out of the whole thing! I couldn’t believe it, I just couldn’t! The huge numbskull started jabbering away as to how he couldn’t accept the commission because, don’t you see, he’d already taken on another client, don’t you see, and given the nature of his commission, don’t you see, there’d be an irremovable stain on his professional ethics, don’t you see, if he accepted Avare’s commission, don’t you see, because—