The Philosophical Strangler(99)
“And rightly so!” exclaimed Zulkeh. “Dwarves are expressly forbidden any congress with the netherworld. Both in Holy Writ and in all the prophetic commentaries. ’Tis because they are damned in the Lord’s eyes, of course.”
I tried—failed—to follow the logic. But Zulkeh was steaming right along.
“The Lord’s decree, needless to say, is rigorously enforced by the powers in the netherworld. As a result, your average dwarf is firmly convinced that he can under no circumstances survive a journey into the infernal regions. Superstitious dolts! The truth, of course, is quite otherwise. I have studied the problem extensively, and I can assure you—”
“Enough!” bellowed Magrit. “Let Gwendolyn finish, for the sake of all creation, before you bore us all to death!”
Gwendolyn spoke hurriedly. “I finally asked Zulkeh for his opinion. He consulted—something—and said that Benvenuti apparently had some trouble with the devils—”
I couldn’t suppress a sudden hysterical laugh, gurgling up past Jenny’s fingers. Apparently had some trouble with the devils! Gee, no kidding?
“—and wound up getting pitched out of the infernal regions altogether. Into—into—you know.”
My humor vanished entirely. Half in a daze, I heard Greyboar’s rumble.
“The story’s true? There is a Place Even Worse Than Hell?”
“Bah!” oathed Zulkeh. “ ’Tis a truth known to savants in swaddling clothes! Indeed, the most recent scholarship leads us to the conclusion that there are any number of transfernal territories. The Place Even Worse Than Hell being only the first in line of descent. Beyond—’tis certain, this!—there is the Snowball’s Last Laugh and Can You Believe This Shit Is Really Happening? Past those regions, our knowledge becomes less precise. The currently accepted hypothesis, of course, is that—”
A miracle! Zulkeh shut himself up! He cleared his throat noisily; and then muttered: “But perhaps for a later, less pressing time. For the moment, Sirrah Greyboar, rest assured that I was able to ascertain the artist Benvenuti’s whereabouts. He is, indeed, in the Place Even Worse Than Hell. And, I regret to state, has fallen into Even Worse Hands. The soul-wracked demonic specter whom I conjured up and whose soul I wracked still further was quite specific on the matter.”
Again, he cleared his throat. “And I dare say he was telling the truth. I wracked his soul quite thoroughly, if I say so myself.”
“Nasty bugger was squealing like a pig by the end,” piped up Shelyid cheerfully. “The professor had him begging for mercy. Well, sort of. Actually, he was begging for eternal damnation. But with soul-wracked demons that’s pretty much the same thing.”
I was very light-headed by now. Almost fainting, to tell you the truth. I could see what was coming a mile away. But I made one last desperate attempt to restore sanity to a world gone mad. I started mumbling and muttering fiercely, trying to get words out past Jenny’s hands.
“Oh, let him talk, Jenny!” snapped Angela crossly. “We’re going to have to listen to it sooner or later anyway.”
Jenny snorted, but she released her grip.
“S’nuts!” I gasped. “Fer pity’s sake, Gwendolyn! I know he used to be your boyfriend and all, but that’s ancient history. I mean, I’m sorry things turned out badly for the guy—nice guy, I’ll admit it, even if he was so disgustingly good-looking—but, hey—it’s over! You gotta get on with life, you know. Let bygones be bygones. Put it all behind you and—”
No use. Tears started welling up in Gwendolyn’s eyes and I felt my throat closing. Damn woman. I never could bear to argue with Gwendolyn when she started crying. Probably because she almost never did, even when she was a little girl.
Damn woman.
“I never stopped loving him, Ignace,” she whispered. “Not for one second. Even though it was I who insisted we break it off.”
“Why did you, then?” asked Greyboar quietly. His eyes lurked under the overhang of his brow like two black mice studying a morsel of food.
Gwendolyn pinched the tears from her eyes. “Oh, come on, brother. D’you really need to ask? You?”
She managed a chuckle that even had a bit of humor in it. “Benvenuti’s an artist. It’s what he lives for, nothing else. Me—” Again, she shrugged. “You know me, brother. Ignace. My whole life is devoted to the revolution. There’s no place in there—not for either of us—for some damned fairy-tale romance. And I knew if we stuck with it, Benvenuti would sooner or later run into trouble with Church and State.”