The Philosophical Strangler(76)

So anyway, the Goatmonk didn’t take the hint. Started groping, he did. So the Cat whipped out her sword and started chopping. Father Venery was not easily discouraged, however, and responded by swinging away with his priestly staff. Figured he’d pound the woman into a pulp and then get on with the seduction, I imagine. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d used that particular technique, no sirree.

It must have been a hell of a fight; I wish I’d seen it. Huge, the Goatmonk, built like a hippo. A lot of it fat, sure, but he was still as strong as a bull. And he always carried his staff. “To bless the poor,” he’d say, laughing like a sewer. Six feet long, that staff, two inches thick, made of solid oak—the Old Geister knows what it weighed. Capped with iron ferrules at both ends. Father Venery could handle it like a normal man could handle a twig. Once, in the marketplace, I saw him split an ox’s head with one blow of the staff. Just for the fun of it. Split the owner’s head, too, when the peasant started yowling at him.

The Goatmonk started off aiming for the Cat’s legs. Wasn’t trying to kill the lady, just change her mood, don’t you know? But soon enough it dawned on him that he’d gotten himself into something a lot trickier than it looked, and after that he started fighting in earnest.

Really wish I’d seen it. You wouldn’t think it’d be much of a contest. The Cat was big for a woman, but she was no giantess like Greyboar’s sister. True, she was quick on her feet, and her sword was three feet long and sharp as a razor. But she was also half blind. And the truth of it is, she hadn’t any real idea of how to use a sword. She’d just grab hold of the hilt like it was an axe and start chopping.

But I’d seen the Cat in a fight before, that time in Blain, and I would’ve put my money on her in a minute.

You see, the woman’s strange. Really strange. Sure, and you always hear that women are unpredictable, but the Cat took it to extremes.

Oh, I would’ve given a lot to have been there! I could see it in my mind. Father Venery roaring like a bull, his staff slashing right and left. And the Cat here and there and up and down and back and forth, cutting and chopping and hacking and hewing at anything at all that happened to be in the area. I almost felt sorry for the Goatmonk. Whenever he thought she was one place, she’d be someplace else. And whenever she was moving, it was either faster than he thought or slower than it looked or just plain in the opposite direction from where she was going. It’s impossible to describe the Cat in action. I know, I’ve seen her. You can figure out where she is, or how fast she’s going, but you can’t do both at the same time. And sure, she was practically blind, so she couldn’t see the Goatmonk either, but did the Cat care? Not a fig. She just chopped away at whatever was around, playing the percentages. Innocent spectators be damned.

Made the Cat’s fights quite exciting for would-be bystanders, I can tell you. Oh, do I wish I’d been there! It makes me laugh just to think about it!

The Trough was packed. It’d been a busy night to begin with, and once the word hit the streets everybody came running. The Trio in B-Flat came charging in just as the Cat’s sword went whizzing through the doorway. They were down in a flash. Good reflexes, those boys—best thieves in the Flankn. Naturally, they fell to quarreling.

“Twenty bob on th’lady!” cried McDoul.

“You’re on!” came Geronimo Jerry. The Weasel held the bet. The money was in his hand before they hit the floor.

Yeah, the Cat was all over the place. It was a good thing for the spectators that she was still using her sword instead of the lajatang she’d been training on. One second she’d be chopping up the counter, the next a table in a corner, then swinging at some poor slob who was just trying to watch. She was hacking at anything that moved—anything that didn’t move, for that matter.

And the patrons! Scrambling for cover under tables one minute, climbing on each others’ shoulders for a good view the next. It’s not like they couldn’t have left if they were worried about their skins. Naturally, nobody did, except old Sylvester, and he never heard the end of it. “A proper Trough-man’d rather die than miss a good fight.” He’s heard that sneer a thousand times since, if he’s heard it once.

A great fight! Best fight in years! Everybody agreed on that after it was all over. Of course, it always helps to have a local favorite, and it goes without saying that everybody was cheering for the Cat. Even the ones with their money on the Goatmonk, which was almost all of them.

A great fight! Went on for quite a while, too. After a good ten minutes, the Goatmonk hadn’t landed once on the Cat. Didn’t sound like he even came close. And the Cat? Well, it’s true, the first ten minutes she hadn’t made a real mark on Father Venery, either. But she’d nicked him more than once, and in the meantime she’d turned half the furniture into kindling and put a few hundred serious ale drinkers through a crash exercise program that must have dropped eight tons, collective gross.