The Philosophical Strangler(62)

Greyboar wasn’t grinning anymore. I looked down at the parquet floor. Scowling fiercely, I imagine. Of all my memories of Gwendolyn, her voice probably hit the sorest spot.

Especially when she sang. No woman in the world had a voice like Gwendolyn’s. Sure as hell not when she was cutting loose with it. A contralto profundo, you could call it—and strong enough to shake whole buildings.

When we were kids, we always figured she’d wind up in the opera house. That was our dream, actually. I’d be her manager and Greyboar’d be her bodyguard. Then—

Sigh. Then one of the pogroms hit. A family of dwarves scurried into our ramshackle little house, begging for mercy and shelter. There was a small mob pounding on their heels, led by a handful of monks.

Greyboar and I hesitated, but Gwendolyn was out the door with her cleaver before the dwarves got more than two sentences out. Sixteen years old, she was then, but she’d already reached her full size. The monk at the head of the mob got his head split before he screeched two words out. “Split,” as in pumpkin.

Then the rest of the mob started swarming Gwendolyn, and the issue of hesitation was a moot point. By the time it was all over, what was left of the mob was in what they call “full retreat.” Between them, Greyboar and Gwendolyn must have mangled a good dozen, including all four of the monks. I did for a couple of the pogromists myself. Small as I was, even at that age I knew how to use a knife in close quarters better than just about anybody except maybe your best muggers.

Sigh. That’s when all our plans went right off the cliff. Because Gwendolyn wasn’t satisfied with just rescuing the dwarves. She insisted on escorting them to the nearest refuge, and before you knew it she was involved with the Underground Railroad herself, and before she knew it she’d joined up with the revolution and The Roach, and before you knew it—

Sigh.

Fortunately, an interruption arrived to break the mood of the moment.

“The heart of the Flankn, is The Trough,” came a new voice. It was the Grump, extending his hand.

“I am also acquainted with the gentlemen,” he said, “an acquaintance I shall enjoy renewing. It’s the one thing I still regret about leaving my hometown. Best ale in the world, The Trough’s.”

That lightened things up quite a bit, talking about ale instead of Gwendolyn. And, as it turned out, it really was a great evening once we got over our shyness at being in such august company.

Really august company, you understand. Kings and nobles and bishops be damned, Greyboar and I sneered at ’em once we took their money. These were composers! Really pretty much like average blokes, once you got to know them. Especially Gramps. He was like everybody’s favorite great-uncle that they wished they had but didn’t.

* * *

The next morning we had a wonderful breakfast. The food was great, but what was even better was that we were serenaded by a small ensemble playing one of the Deadbeat’s divertimenti. With the Deadbeat himself conducting! He seemed much the more pleasant individual in the morning. I decided to write off his gaucheries the night before to too much drink. A terrible thing, too much drink. I know whereof I speak.

A leisurely pace, they had at the Abbey. It wasn’t until midafternoon that Greyboar and I were summoned to Hildegard’s study by one of the Sisters. The invitation didn’t actually include Jenny and Angela, but they came along anyway and the Sister didn’t make any objection.

The Sister led the way, in and around and back and forth and up this flight of stairs and down that one and back around and back up another flight of stairs—etc., etc. I was totally lost after three minutes. It really was a huge place, the Abbey. Much bigger than it had looked the night before in the dark.

But finally we were ushered into Hildegard’s study. It was quite a room, that study. Enormous, it was, with floor-to-ceiling bookcases covering two of the walls. A great bay window on a third wall opened onto the Woods beyond. The last wall was only half a wall, because there was a huge alcove leading off, filled with what looked at first glance like tombstones, oddly enough. Then I saw small flames flickering amid the stones, and decided it must be some kind of peculiar fireplace.

In the center of the room, just slightly off toward the window, was the Abbess’ desk. Like everything else in the room, the desk was built to large scale. Beautiful desk, made of maple or cherry or some kind of fancy wood. Covered with papers.

All this, however, I noticed later. Upon first entering the room, my attention was immediately drawn to the floor, which was completely covered by a thick rug.

Most of which rug was not actually visible, because it was covered in turn with a gigantic snarl.