Iyesu gibbered his disgust. “The insult to my person!” he cried, and sprang into action. And a pretty sight it was, too, to see him bounding and scampering about, landing many shrewd and cunning blows of the open hand, the fist, the knee, the elbow and the foot upon those diverse portions of Greyboar’s anatomy which he imagined to be vulnerable.
So great was his interest that Greyboar stood immobile for no little time.
“Most proficient!” marveled the strangler. Then, recalling his duty, Greyboar seized Iyesu in mid-leap and pulverized his spine and that was that.
“Master, I am undone!”
Iyesu’s shriek stirred the King to a flurry of activity. He raised his head from its pillow.
“Can you do nothing?”
“The probability is small, Your Highness. Indeed, were it not for my incomparable training in the mystic arts of bodily control, I would already be dead. The spine is rather central to all human endeavor. But I shall make the attempt.”
And so saying, the master of the martial arts slithered his way to Greyboar’s side and tried a few blows.
“ ’Tis as I feared, the leverage is no longer available. On the other hand,” he mused, “there are possibilities for the future. Perhaps even a new school!”
“Too late, I suppose, to prevent my assassination?”
“Indeed so, master. Even the great Ashokai required four years to found his school. I fear it shall take me longer. There are, it must be admitted, certain obstacles to overcome.” Here he seized Greyboar’s ankle and attempted a throw. “Just as I predicted,” he complained, flipping and flopping about, “it’s the leverage.”
“So be it,” yawned the King. Greyboar advanced and seized his neck. “Yet do I regret the truncation of my philosophic endeavor.”
Greyboar’s fingers halted in mid-squeeze. A great fear seized my heart.
“What philosophic endeavor?” demanded the strangler.
“Greyboar!” I shouted. “Burke the bugger and let’s be off!”
“One moment. What philosophic endeavor?”
The King stared up at the strangler. “Surely you are not interested in such matters?” he wheezed. His round face was very flushed, which was not surprising, given that Greyboar’s hands were buried in the rolls of fat adorning the royal neck.
“To the contrary,” replied Greyboar, “philosophy is my life’s passion.”
“Indeed!” gasped the King. “It seems . . . an odd . . . avo . . . cation . . . for an as . . . sassin.”
“Why? It seems to me quite appropriate. After all, my trade brings me in close proximity to the basic metaphysical questions—pain, suffering, torment, death, and the like. A most fertile field for ethical ponderations.”
“I had . . . not . . . con . . . sidered . . .” The King’s face was now bright purple. “But . . . I . . . ex . . . pire.”
“Oh. Excuse me.” Greyboar released the royal gullet. “Professional reflexes, I’m afraid.”
“Quite so,” agreed the King. His Royal Rotundness managed to sit up, coughing and gagging and massaging his throat.
Well, you can imagine my state of mind! By now I was hopping about in a rage. “Greyboar! Will you cease this madness and get on with the job?”
The next moment I was peering up Greyboar’s massive hook of a nose, his beady black eyes visible at a distance. So does the mouse examine the eagle’s beak just before lunch.
“You will annoy me,” he predicted.
“Never,” I disclaimed.
“That is not true. You have annoyed me before, on several occasions.”
Prudence be damned, I’m not the patient type. I was hopping about again. I fear my voice was shrill.
“Yes, and it’s always the same thing! Will you please stick to business? Save the philosophy for later!”
“I cannot discuss metaphysics with a dead man.” He turned to the King. “Is this not so?”
“Indeed,” concurred His Majesty. “Although the transcendentalists would have it otherwise.”
Greyboar’s fingers twitched.
“Not my school,” added the King hastily.
I saw my chance, while they were distracted. I drew my dagger from my boot and sprang for the royal throat.
I know, I know, it was stupid. But the aggravation of it all! Of course, Greyboar snatched me in midair.
“As I foretold, you have annoyed me.” Moments later, my arms and legs were tied up in knots. Square knots, to boot. I hate square knots—they’re not natural to the human anatomy.
“Last time you tied me in a granny,” I complained.
“Last time you got loose.”