The Philosophical Strangler(80)
All three of them stared at me. Then Jenny and Angela looked at Greyboar and smiled sweetly.
“Greyboar, why don’t you come back tomorrow morning?” suggested Jenny.
“Not too early,” added Angela.
Chapter 17.
The Cat in a Box
When Greyboar showed up the next morning, the girls brought me out, all bundled up. I’ve got to admit, the costume they designed was perfect. And I could hardly stand up.
“There’s still the one big problem,” said Angela, frowning.
“That stupid grin he’s got plastered all over his face,” complained Jenny. “It just doesn’t go with the image we’re looking for.”
“No problem,” rumbled Greyboar. “I’ll take care of that.”
Not more than ten minutes later, the girls and I were on our way to the courthouse in a carriage Greyboar had hired. By now, I had to admit, the plan just might work. I was dressed the part, I probably did look like I was exhausted to the point of death, and I certainly bore on my face the look of a man worried about everything. Of course, I wasn’t worried about everything. I was worried about just one thing. The Thumbs of Eternity. Greyboar had been most explicit.
“You choke, I choke. So don’t blow your lines.”
Believe it or not, it worked like a charm. Angela and Jenny were perfect. They looked like the sunshine to begin with, and dressed in their finery—I mean, who could possibly have taken them for lowlifes bent on undoing the Royal Justice?
And me? Well. Ahem. Ahem. Ignace the Great Thespian, at your service!
Actually, it was easy. On the way over to the courthouse, I figured it all out. All I had to do was act like a complete pedant. And hadn’t I—not so long before, either!—spent days and days in the company of Zulkeh of Goimr, physician? Sure and he was probably the greatest sorcerer in the world, but there was no question at all that he was the world’s pedant par excellence.
And so it was we breezed right through the guards into the courtroom.
“Blessed beyond measure are you, unworthy children!” I lectured Jenny and Angela in a loud voice, wagging my finger, as we walked down the corridor. “Thus to have the privilege of observing in person the great Judge Rancor Jeffreys! In full regalia—like unto the jurists of old! Why, did not the great Solon Laebmauntsforscynneweëld himself, in his classic Justice Begins With the Rope, compare Judge Jeffreys to the legendary—though, I admit, ’tis true that Hammurabi Sfondrati-Piccolomini has, in a recent monograph in the Journal of Avant-Garde Torture, advanced the argument that Jeffreys lacks—well! No need to wallow in Hammurabi’s pathetic reasoning. Nay, fie upon such witless notions! The man has absolutely no grasp of the dialectic. And his epistemology! Scandalous, scandalous, there’s no other word for it! Unless, perhaps, the word be disreputable, or infamous, or contemptible, or ignominious, or execrable, or peccant, or oppobrious, or—”
Well, you get the idea.
Before you knew it, we were ushered into the galleries reserved for the aristocracy. Only challenged once, by an officious usher. But he fled before the torrent of my polysyllabic indignation.
Quite interesting, actually, the whole experience. Not, of course, the first time I’d been in the Royal Courtroom with Judge Rancor Jeffreys on the bench. But on all previous occasions I’d been seated down below. In the docks for the accused, to be precise.
And here came Judge Rancor Jeffreys, seating himself at the bench. Just as I remembered him. He was really a difficult man to forget, don’t you know. It wasn’t so much the stony face, the gleaming eyes, the lips like a vise, the nose like a hatchet, the chin like a spade, the jaws like the very crunch of fate. No, it was the way he dressed. Not the gloomy black robes, of course—you expect that on a judge. No, it was the great necklace of finger bones, the earrings made of babes’ skulls, the hangman’s noose for a necktie, the scalps woven into his wig, the tattoo of an Iron Maiden on his forehead, the gavel in the form of a miniature headsman’s axe. A disheartening sight he was, to the defendant in the dock. The cup of blood from which he refreshed himself throughout a trial didn’t help much, either.
Then they brought the Cat out and hauled her into the dock.
I won’t bore you with a recital of the charges. They were long, long, long. And mostly silly, although I liked the one about “interfering with a cleric in his pursuit of the Lord’s work.” And I thought “altering the voice of piety” was a very nice touch.
Best part was when the Cat was allowed to speak. This was usually the point where the accused threw themselves on the mercy of the Court. Never did any good, of course, but pleading innocence was always worse. Infuriated Judge Jeffreys, pleas of innocence did.