The Philosophical Strangler(90)

The door opened. McDoul pushed his way in, with Greyboar right behind so as to pin the doorman against the wall with his shoulder.

“Your Grace!” gasped the doorman. “But—but—you just left but a moment ago!”

“Knave!” hissed McDoul, his face hidden in the cowl. “How long have you been in my service now?”

“Six years, Your Grace.”

“And you could be fooled by that impostor? He’s my double, you idiot!”

The doorman’s jaw was agape. “Your double, Your Grace?”

“Of course, my double! The enemies of the Church must be kept off guard! Imbecile!”

McDoul’s act was pretty much wasted. Because Greyboar had transfixed the doorman with The Stare, and after that the poor man was lost. McDoul hissed some vague nonsense about dark plots and foul machinations, and instructed the doorman to forget everything he’d just seen. By that point, I think the fellow had forgotten his own name.

Then McDoul pointed to Erlic and G.J. “Show these varlets to my bedchamber,” he hissed. And to them, he hissed: “Drop that chest and you’ll answer to the Inquisition!”

So the doorman led us to the bedchamber. The man’s wits were so addled that it never occurred to him to wonder why the Cardinal couldn’t lead the way to his own bedchamber. Answer to that, of course, is that we had no idea where it was. That mansion was gigantic. It was nestled up against the Pile, the great ugly crag which overlooks New Sfinctr and most of whose interior is filled with the cells and tunnels of Grotum’s most notorious dungeon. As it turned out, the bedchamber was all the way in the back, on the third floor, carved right into the stone of the Pile itself. Figured.

The whole thing really went as smoothly as you could ask. Of course, we must have run into a dozen other servants along the way. But they took one look at the terrified expression on the face of the doorman and disappeared in a flash. Not known for his kindly ways, the Cardinal wasn’t. And it was as clear as daylight that every lackey in the place had long ago memorized the most profound of the sayings of the wise man: “Don’t ask. Just don’t.”

So there we were, at last. In the Cardinal’s bedchamber. McDoul hissed some final instructions to the doorman, to the effect that he would be occupied for some time with urgent business of the Inquisition. He did not want to be disturbed.

Disturbing the Cardinal, clearly enough, was the last thing the doorman intended to do. He was gone in a flash.

“All right, let’s get to work,” said Greyboar. He watched Erlic and G.J. slowly lowering the chest, grunting and groaning.

“Oh, cut out the act!” snapped the strangler.

“What act?” demanded the Weasel.

“Great crate weighs th’ton,” gasped G.J.

“Filled as it is wit’ th’needed supplies for our labor,” explained Erlic. And so saying, he opened the chest.

Well, the plan had called for an empty chest, except for two shovels, a pick, and a lantern. The tools were there, all right. But the rest of the chest was full of ale pots.

Greyboar was not pleased, but he let it go after I pointed out that the Trio hadn’t ever been known to do anything, not even steal, until they were full of ale. So we started inspecting the bedchamber, looking for the entrance to the tunnel which the Cardinal had been digging to the Cat’s cell.

Didn’t take us long to find it. The entrance was concealed in the floor of a closet. We lifted the trapdoor. A ladder led down to a landing below. Bringing the digging tools and the lantern, we climbed down, Greyboar leading the way.

And ran right into an unexpected complication. It was obvious, in retrospect. In fact, we all felt like total idiots.

Who had been digging the Cardinal’s tunnel? Not the Cardinal himself—not the great prelate of the Church! No, he’d gotten hold of three dwarves somewhere, and made them do the work. And there we found them, chained up to the wall of the tunnel.

The poor little guys were scared out of their wits. But once they understood we weren’t the Cardinal’s men, they were ecstatic. They’d always known the Cardinal would have them killed after they finished the work, so they’d gone as slowly as they could. That had cost them plenty of whippings, but a whipping’s better than the Big Cut.

Now they pleaded with us to let them escape. The Trio started making noises to the effect that “dead men tell no tales—dead dwarves neither.” But one glare from Greyboar was enough to scotch that idea. The truth is, Greyboar had a soft spot in his heart for dwarves ever since he met Zulkeh’s apprentice, the dwarf Shelyid. Actually, I’ll admit to the same soft spot. Really a great kid, Shelyid. He was a little on the lippy side when we first met, but after I slapped him down he turned out all right. He and I got to be pretty good friends, actually. Greyboar and I spent quite a bit of time with the wizard and his apprentice on our way back from Prygg. Greyboar hung around the wizard, naturally, talking about who-knows-what philosophical nonsense. Me, I found Shelyid’s company much more congenial.