Eric Flint - The Philosophical Strangler

The Philosophical Strangler

Eric Flint

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are

fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

form.

Strangler" in L. Ron Hubbard Presents Writers of the Future, Volume IX.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN: 0-671-31986-8

Cover art by Stephen Hickman

Map by Richard Roach

First printing, May 2001

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Flint, Eric.

The philosophical strangler / by Eric Flint.

p. cm.

ISBN 0-671-31986-8

1. Assassins—Fiction. I. Title

PS3556.L548 P48 2001

813'.54—dc21 00-066733

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

To David and Fred and Richard;

To Joanie, who fed us beer and spaghetti;

To Steve, on his couch;

And to the memory of Jerry O'Connell

Baen Books by Eric Flint

Mother of Demons

1632

Rats, Bats, and Vats (with Dave Freer)

The Philosophical Strangler

The Belisarius series, with David Drake:

An Oblique Approach

In the Heart of Darkness

Destiny's Shield

Fortune's Stroke

The Tide of Victory (forthcoming)

The Federation of the Hub series,

by James H. Schmitz, edited by Eric Flint:

Telzey Amberdon

T'nT: Telzey & Trigger

Trigger & Friends

The Hub: Dangerous Territory

Prologue.

Entropy, and the Strangler

"To the contrary," demurred Greyboar, toying with his mug,

"the secret lies entirely in the fingerwork."

But the bravo wouldn't have it. " 'Tis rather in the main force!" he bellowed, and fell upon the

strangler. The table splintered, the mugs went flying in a cloud of ale froth.

Needless to say, I scrambled aside. Like being a chipmunk caught between two bull moose, don't

you know? Besides, there's no profit in this sort of thing.

Safe at a distance, I stuck my head between two cheering onlookers and saw that my client was in

his assailant's grasp. The lout's great biceps, triceps, deltoids, pectoids and whatnot bulged and rippled

as he worked at Greyboar's throat. Couldn't find it, of course.

They're a low lot, these tavern rowdies, not given to temperate debate.

Stupid, to boot. What I mean is, the outcome was never in doubt. "Professional fingerwork," as

Greyboar calls it, is simply beyond the ken of hurlyburlies who lounge about the alehouses, until they

encounter it firsthand.

For this particular clown, personal experience had now arrived. Casually, Greyboar sank his hands

into his opponent's belly, kneading and squeezing. It must be like eating ten cucumbers at once. An

astonished grimace came over the goon's face.

"Fouled our breeches, have we?" chuckled the chokester. A good lad, Greyboar, but his humor runs

in a low vein.

His jest made, the strangler proceeded to more serious business. A quick flip of the thumbs popped

the bullyboy's kneecaps. His victim now at eye level, Greyboar leaned back in his chair and shrugged

off the hands which were still groping in the vicinity of where his neck would be if he had one.

"As I said," he concluded, "it's all in the fingerwork."

Then, just as I thought we'd gotten out of the silly affair with no harm, wouldn't you know it but

that the barkeep had to go pour oil on the flames.

"And who's going to pay for all this broken furniture?" he demanded. The barkeep's voice was

shrill, in keeping with his sour face. He looked down at the bullyboy, now writhing on the floor.

"Not Lothar, that's for sure," he whined. "Not much money to be made by a loan enforcer on

crutches."

That's done it! I thought.

"Him?" exclaimed Greyboar. "A shark's tooth?" His good humor vanished like the dew.

"And here it is," I grumbled, "there'll be lawsuits, damages, weeping widow and wailing tots, and

the Old Geister knows what else." I squirmed my way through the crowd.

"Greyboar, let's be off!" There's nothing worse than a usurer's lawyers.

"Not quite yet," growled the strangler, reaching for the doomee's neck. But luck was with us. At

that very moment the porkers arrived, a whole squad of them.

"What's the disturbance here?" demanded the sergeant in charge, flattening the nearest patron with

his bullystick. "You're all under arrest!"

If we'd been in our usual haunts, quaffing our ale at The Sign of the Trough in the Flankn, the

porkers wouldn't have dared come in—not with less than a battalion, at any rate. Of course, if we'd

been in the Flankn, where Greyboar's well known, no bullyboy would have picked a fight with him in

the first place. But I'll give the patrons in that grimy little alehouse this much, they didn't hesitate but a

second before the benches were flying and the fracas was afoot.

I seized the propitious moment. "Out!" I hissed, grabbing the strangler's elbow. "There's no money

to be made here."

"Money, money, that's all you think about," grumbled Greyboar. "What then of ethics, and the

meaning of life?"

"Save it for later." I pulled him toward the rear exit. Fortunately, the strangler was willing to leave.

He's not the sort one drags from a tavern against his will, don't you know. On our way out, a beefy

porker blocked the route, leering and twirling his club, but Greyboar removed his face and that was

that. Fingerwork, he calls it.

Once in the back alley, Greyboar returned to the matter, like a dog chewing a bone.

"Yet there must be a logic to it all," he complained. "Surely there's more to life than this aimless

collision of bodies in space." His thick brows knotted over his eyes.

"Wine, women and song!" I retorted. "There's sufficient purpose for a strangler and his agent. And

it all takes money, my man, which you can't get rousting bravos in alehouses."

That last was a bit unfair. It had been my idea to go into the alehouse, to celebrate the completion of

a nice little job with a pot or two. Bad idea, of course. The job had taken us to a grimy little suburb of

the city, where we'd never been before. And there's something about Greyboar—his size, maybe, or just

an aura of implacable certainty—that inevitably seems to arouse the local strong man to belligerence.

As the wise man says: "Big frogs in little ponds are prone to suicide."

But it was just so exasperating!

"Still and all," continued Greyboar, like a glacier on its course, "I'm convinced there's more to it.

'Wine, women and song,' you say, and that's fine for you. You're a sybarite of the epicurean persuasion.

But I, it is clear to me, incline rather to the stoic, perhaps even the ascetic."

"You're driving me mad with this philosophical foolishness!" I exclaimed. "And will you please

curl up your hands?"

"Sorry." He has long arms, Greyboar, it's an asset in his line of work. But the sound of fingernails

clittery-clattering along the cobblestones gets on my nerves.

By now we had reached the end of the alley and were onto a main street. I looked around and

spotted a hansom not far away. I whistled, and it was but a minute later that we clambered aboard. It

was an extravagance, to be sure, but we were flush with cash and I'd no desire to walk all the way back

into the city.

"Take us to The Sign of the Trough," I told the driver. "It's in the Flankn, right off—"

"I know where it is," grumbled the cabbie. "It'll cost you extra, you know?"

I sighed, but didn't argue the point. Cabbies always charged extra for going into the Thieves'

Quarter. Can't say as I blamed them. It was one of the disadvantages of living in the Flankn. But the

advantages made it worth the while—hardly any porkers to bother you, hidey-holes galore, a friendly

neighborhood (certainly no pestersome bullyboys!), a vast network of information, customers always

knew where to find you, etc.

As the hansom made its way back into New Sfinctr, Greyboar continued to drone on about

philosophy's central place in human existence. I struggled manfully to control my temper, but at one

point I couldn't resist taking a dig.

"You're only doing this philosophy nonsense because of Gwendolyn," I grumbled.

Of course, that made him furious. This is not, by the way, a stunt I recommend for the amateur—

infuriating Greyboar, that is. But I'm the world's expert on the subject, and I know exactly when I can

get away with it.

His jaws clamped shut, his face turned red, he bestowed a ferocious glare on me.

"What's my sister got to do with it?" he demanded.

I glared right back at him.

"It's obvious! You never gave a second thought—you never gave a first thought!—to this

philosophy crap until Gwendolyn said you had the philosophy of a weasel."

He looked away from me, his face like a stone. I felt bad, then. He was such a formidable monster,

that I forgot sometimes he had feelings just like other people. And before their fight, he and his sister

had been very close.

Still, it shut him up. The rest of the ride into the Flankn took place in a cold silence. Uncomfortable,

yes, but it was a damned sight better than having to listen to him prattling on about epistemology and

ontology and whatnot.

The cabbie dropped us off in front of our lodgings. We had some small rooms on the top floor of a

typical Flankn flophouse. I paid the cabbie and we headed for the door.

Just as we started up the steps to the landing, a voice sounded behind us.

"Hold there, sirrahs!"

We turned and beheld a bizarre sight, even for the Flankn. A small man stood before us, clad in the

most ridiculous costume: billowing green cloak, baggy yellow pants tied up at the ankles, tasseled

slippers curling up at the toes, his head bound in a bright red strip of cloth. A "turban," it's called.

"Who're you?" I demanded.

The fellow glanced about. "Please, lower your voice! My business is confidential."

"Confidential, is it?" boomed Greyboar. "Well, out with it!"

The man hissed his agitation. "Quietly, please! It is not to be discussed on the public

thoroughfares!" He cupped his ear.

Greyboar snorted. "It's as good a place as any. There's none to listen but the urchins of the street,

who're loyal to their own." The strangler gazed benignly over the refuse, debris and tottering tenements

that encompassed a typical street of the Flankn. His eyes fell upon a ne'er-do-well lounging against a

wall some steps beyond. "And the occasional idler, of course." Greyboar cracked his knuckles; it

sounded like a coal mine caving in. The layabout found urgent business elsewhere.

"Nevertheless," continued the turbaned one, "I must insist on privacy. I represent a most important

individual, who demands the utmost discretion."

Left to his own, Greyboar would have quitted the fellow with no further ado. But that's why he

needed an agent.

"Important individual, you say? No doubt he's prepared to pay handsomely for our services?" I

spoke softly, since there was no reason to aggravate a potential client. Strangler's customers were

always a twitchy lot.

"He can be quite generous. But come, let us arrange a meeting elsewhere."

"Done!" I said, cutting Greyboar off. "In three hours, in the back room of the Lucky Lady. Know

where it is?"

"I shall find it. Until then."

"It'll be twenty quid for the meeting—whether or not we take the job." For a moment, I thought he

would protest. But he thought better of it, and scurried around the corner.

* * *

And that's how the whole thing started. It was bad enough when Greyboar was wasting his time

(and my patience) searching for a philosophy of life. But now that he's found one, he's impossible. If I'd

known in advance what was going to happen, I wouldn't have touched the job for all the gold in Ozar.

But there it is—I was an agent, not a fortune-teller. And even though we were flush at the moment, I

always had an eye out for a lucrative job. "Folly ever comes cloaked in opportunity," as the wise man

says.

Three hours later we were in the back room of the Lucky Lady. The tavern was in the Flankn, in

that section where the upper crust went slumming. Greyboar didn't like the place, claimed it was too

snooty for his taste. I wasn't too fond of it myself, actually. Much rather have been swilling my suds at

The Trough, surrounded by proper lowlifes. But there was no place like the Lucky Lady for a quiet

business transaction. Especially since almost all our clients were your hoity-toity types, who'd die of

shock in The Trough.

Mind you, my discretion was all in vain. The man was there, all right, accompanied by a fat, frog-

faced lad barely old enough to shave. And both of them were clad in the same manner, except that the

youth's costume was even more extravagant. Customers. As the wise man says: "Wherefore profit it a

man to be learned, if he remains stupid in his mind?"

"You could have worn something less conspicuous," I grumbled, after we took our seats across the

table from them.

The stripling took offense. "I am the Prince of the Sundjhab! The Prince of the Sundjhab does not

scurry about in barbarian rags!" Typical. Sixteen years old, at the most, and he was already speaking in

ukases.

Greyboar's interest was aroused. "The Sundjhab? It's said the Sundjhab is a land of ancient learning

and lore. Sages and mystics by the gross, you stumble over 'em just walking down the street."

"Let's to business!" I said, rather forcefully. Once let Greyboar get started on this track, we'd never

get anything accomplished.

The Prince's companion nodded his head. "You may call me Rashkuta. My master's name"—a nod

to the Prince—"is of no import. His involvement in this affair must remain completely hidden." He

cleared his throat. "Our business is simple. My master's birthright is barred by another, his uncle, whom

we wish removed that my master may inherit his kingdom."

"What about his uncle's children?" demanded Greyboar. "D'you want I should burke the whole

brood?" Sarcasm, this—Greyboar drew the line at throttling sprouts, save the occasional bratling.

The gibe went unnoticed. "It will not be necessary. In the Sundjhab, the line of descent passes from

uncle to nephew. There are no others between my master and his due."

"Odd sort of system," mused Greyboar. "In Grotum, a man's own children are his heirs."

"Yours is a preposterous method!" decreed the Prince. "That a king's children be his own is

speculation, pure solipsism. But that a king's sister's children be of his own royal blood is certain."

"A point," allowed Greyboar. The royal nose lifted even higher.

"Let's keep it to business," I interjected. "There is a problem with your proposal. The Sundjhab is

known to us here in New Sfinctr, but mostly as a land of legend and fable. Three obstacles are thus

presented. First, it is far away. Second, should we arrive there, we are unfamiliar with the terrain.

Finally, how will we make sure to collect our fee once the job is done?"

"Your concerns are moot," replied Rashkuta. "My master's uncle is touring the continent of

Grotum. For the next week, he will be residing in New Sfinctr. The work can be done here. Indeed, it

must be done here. Fearsome as are the guardians who accompany him on his travels, they are nothing

compared to what surrounds him in his palace in the Sundjhab."

His words jogged my memory. I had heard vague talk in the marketplace about some foreign

mucky-muck on a visit. Couldn't for the life of me understand why. What I mean is, if I'd been the King

of the Sundjhab, I'd never have left the harem except to stagger to the treasure room. And I'd certainly

not have come to New Sfinctr! The place is a pesthole. Probably some scheming and plotting going on.

A dirty business, politics. Of course, it was great for the trade.

But a chokester's agent can't afford to let his mind wander. "Who are the King's guardians?"

"They consist of the following," replied Rashkuta. "First, the King has his elite soldiery, a body of

twelve men, the cream of the Sundjhabi army—"

"Not to be compared to the buffoons in Sfinctrian uniform," sneered the Prince.

"—secondly, he is accompanied by his Grand Sorcerer, one Dhaoji, a puissant thaumaturge—"

"Not to be compared to the fumbling potion-mixers called wizards in these heathen lands," sneered

the Prince.

"—and thirdly, should you penetrate these barriers, you will confront the Royal Bodyguard, Iyesu

by name, who is a master of the ancient martial arts of the South."

"Not to be compared to the grunting perspirers called fighters in your barbarous tongue," sneered

the Prince.

I looked at Greyboar. He nodded.

"We'll take the job. Now, as to our fee. We will require ten thousand quid, payable half in advance

and half upon completion. In addition, of course, to the twenty quid you owe us for this meeting."

Our clients gaped. "But we were informed that you only charged one thousand quid for, uh, for

your work!" protested Rashkuta.

"And we are only charging you a thousand quid for strangling the young master's uncle," I agreed

cheerfully. "In addition, however, it is necessary to charge two thousand for the elite soldiers, three

thousand for the unexcelled sorcerer, and a clean four thousand for the incomparable master of the

martial arts. As a rule, such trifles come with the job. But—I am only respecting the Prince's fiat—his

uncle's protectors are not to be compared to the riffraff we normally encounter in our work." A nice

touch, this. To be sure, I was demanding an outrageous fee. But I'd be a poor agent if I didn't milk the

Golden Cow when I could. "Greater greed is the greedy man's gratuity," as the wise man says.

"We can find another to do the job!" countered Rashkuta. But it was weak, very weak.

"Greyboar's the best." No boast, it was a simple fact. And by the look on their faces, our clients had

already learned as much in their investigations.

Rashkuta tried to bargain, but His Adolescence cut him short.

"Pay them. We are not peasants, to squabble in the bazaar."

You could always count on royalty. Why the world was such a madhouse. Buggers'd rather

slaughter each other's plebes than compromise their noble dignity. Parasites, the lot of them. I'd always

agreed with Greyboar's sister on that point, even if I thought Gwendolyn's ideals were a lot of utopian

nonsense.

"Going to be a bit of trouble collecting the back half of our fee," I said to myself. It was clear from

his glare that Tadpole the Terrible was not pleased with us. But I wasn't worried about it. Greyboar was

the dreamy type, true, but he was always quick enough to squeeze what was owed to us out of

recalcitrant clients. That is not a metaphor. He fed them the money first. Crude, I admit, but the word

got around.

Rashkuta counted out the money and slid it across the table. Naturally, he made a big production

out of it, hunching his shoulders, eyes flitting hither and yon. As if a Flankn cutpurse this side of an

asylum would intervene between Greyboar and his commission.

Naturally, too, he had to add: "How can we be certain that you will do the job, now that you possess

such a princely sum?"

"Matter of professional ethics," growled the strangler. Rashkuta made to press the point, but

Greyboar transmuted a chunk of the oak table into sawdust, and that was that. An easy-going and

tolerant sort, Greyboar, but he'd always been testy about his professional ethics.

"Where can we find the Prince's uncle?" I asked.

"He retains a suite at the Hospice of Stupefying Opulence. You are familiar with the

establishment?"

"Of course." Wasn't quite a lie. I'd seen the outside of the place. I was even familiar with the

servants' quarters in the back, due to a brief but torrid affair with one of the maids in my earlier years.

But I'd never been in the guests' portion of the Hospice. They catered to a rather different clientele.

"However," I continued, "it will prove a wee bit difficult for us to saunter through the main

entrance, don't you know. Exclusive, it is. They'd as soon let in a measly baronet as a leper. Doormen

standing on porters on top of bellhops. Professional busybodies, the lot of them, they send 'em to the

Royal Academy of Officiousness. Desk clerks get three years' postgraduate training. What I mean is,

we can't very well march in and announce we've come to throttle the King of the Sundjhab. We'll need

help getting in. Are you staying there too?"

Hem, haw, squirm, squirm. Customers. Eventually, they confessed to a small room tucked away in

an obscure corner of the Hospice, practically a broom closet in the maids' quarters, to listen to them.

"Fine. There's a rear entrance, leads off the kitchen. At midnight, tonight, one of you will be there

to let us in."

Eric Flint - The Philosophical Strangler

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