The Philosophical Strangler(78)
So it was O’Neal who saved the day. Kept Greyboar preoccupied while everybody else made their escape. The strangler even lingered over the job, not at all like his usual “give-’em-one-quick-crunch-and-move-on-to-the-next.” He was bound and determined, it seemed, to prove that the euphemism “wring his neck” was not a euphemism. O’Neal even survived the experience, unlike his vocal cords. By the time Greyboar went after the rest, they had a good head start. And as quick as he is with his hands, Greyboar’s not really built for a long stern chase, don’t you know. Like I said, light casualties.
Eventually, Greyboar came back to The Trough. I was there, perched on a barstool, chatting with Leuwen. Only customer in the place. (Not counting O’Neal, who didn’t regain consciousness for hours.) Leuwen paled when Greyboar came in, but he stayed put. Couldn’t have outrun the big guy anyway, as fat as he was.
“I can’t take sides in a brawl, Greyboar,” squeaked Leuwen. “I’m a barkeep. Professional ethics, you know?”
Greyboar glowered at him, but he let it go. Had a great respect for professional ethics, the strangler did.
Quick as a snake, Leuwen put a pot of ale in front of Greyboar. “On the house,” he squeaked.
Greyboar took a drink.
“And where was the Trio in B-Flat?” he demanded. “I was looking for those boys especial, looking to wring their mangy necks. I’ve been hearing Geronimo Jerry claimed to be my cousin last time he was in the Pile, so’s the guards would treat him good. Was going to let it pass, but—!” He glowered. “Mangiest dogs in the Flankn, the Trio.”
“Actually,” I responded, “if you hadn’t been so all-fired eager to throttle the collective throat of the alehouse world, you’d have done the intelligent thing like I did and stuck around and let Leuwen finish the story.”
“Trio’s in the Pile,” said Leuwen, his voice sounding more like its usual self. “They was the last row, you know, between the Cat and the Guard. Fought on, the boys did, longer than anyone. Kept the Guard at bay all by themselves, the last minute or so. Pissed off the Guard so much they was the only ones besides the Cat herself what got arrested as well as beat up.”
Greyboar frowned, took another pull of ale. Then—I loved it!—said: “Good lads, the Trio. Always said so.”
“Cat’s trial is tomorrow,” I told him.
Greyboar sat up straight. “We’ll go! Stand by her side!”
“Don’t be stupid!” I snapped. “Think they’ll let lowlifes like us—you especially!—anywhere near the Royal Court? Much less get inside! Leuwen’s been telling me the Queen’s ordered the whole Guard out for security at the trial. Not just the Guard, either. The Fifth Hussars are being brought into the city for crowd control. The Black Grenadiers’ve been assigned to patrol the city limits, keep out the peasants.”
“Supposed to be a whole column of peasants marching on the city tomorrow,” commented Leuwen. “Got icons and everything, going to petition the Ecclesiarchs to declare the Cat a saint.”
“But I’ve got to see her!” cried Greyboar. “Got to figure out a way to get her out of this mess.” He glared at his alepot like it was the cause of the problem. Then—surprise, surprise—he turned to me.
“You’re supposed to be the brains of the team, Ignace,” he grumbled. “Think of something.”
Bite the tongue, bite the tongue, bite the tongue. That’s what I had to tell myself, so’s I wouldn’t do something really stupid—really fatal, probably, given the mood of the moment—like make sarcastic remarks about self-professed philosophers.
“What do you want me to do?” I complained. “I can’t even figure out how we could get into the courtroom, much less rescue the Cat.”
“You’ll never be able to spring her right now,” said Leuwen. “You wouldn’t believe the security! The Queen’s in a rare fury, curse her soul. Have to wait till the trial’s over, and the Cat’s been sentenced. Then maybe things’ll ease up a bit.”
“Cat’ll be dead by then!” cried Greyboar. “Executed!”
Leuwen shook his head. “Not a chance, Greyboar. The Cat’s not for an early grave, that’s sure. The Queen ordered Judge Rancor Jeffreys be put on the bench for the trial.”
Greyboar paled a little. Some of that was relief, sure, because with Jeffreys on the bench there wasn’t any chance the Cat was in for a quick execution. But it wasn’t much relief. Jeffreys didn’t believe in quick hangings, except when he ordered judges hanged who didn’t hand down enough death sentences.