Discipline restored, the wizard turned back to Magrit.
“I shall graciously overlook the rude manner of your greeting, madame. Not to mention the impertinent behavior of your familiar!” He bestowed a fierce look upon the salamander. “For, I will admit, my method of entry was perhaps not altogether suave in its approach.”
With a conciliatory gesture, he forestalled the derisive remark even now foreseeable in Magrit’s expression. “Let bygones be bygones, if you will. Soon enough, Magrit, you will learn the cause of my apparently outré behavior. But for the moment, may we begin anew? Perhaps with some common civilities! For I have not yet been properly introduced to your other guests.”
Then, observing the intemperate remark about to issue from the witch’s lips: “Say rather, your proper guests! Or, if you prefer, the other occupants of this room.”
With some effort, or so it seemed, the horrid hag restrained her natural inclinations. Taking a deep breath, she shrugged her shoulders.
“What the hell, why not? Zulkeh of Goimr, let me introduce you to Greyboar the strangler and his agent Ignace, lately of New Sfinctr. They’re here at the moment due to a falling out with the authorities of that pesthole of a city. Not for the first time!”
The giant bowed politely. “I’m Greyboar. The little one’s Ignace. My card, sir.” And so saying, the mage was presented with an embossed calling card held between a thumb and forefinger the size of large sausages. The card read:
GREYBOAR—Strangleur Extraordinaire
“Have Thumbs, Will Travel”
Customized Asphyxiations
No Gullet Too Big, No Weasand Too Small
My Motto: Satisfaction Garroteed, or
The Choke’s on Me!
“But I have heard of you, sir!” exclaimed the mage. “Are you not the same Greyboar who throttled the Marquis de Sangsue?”
The strangler nodded his head. “I have that honor.”
” ‘Twas a masterly stuffocation, by all accounts! And are you not the author, as well, of the legendary strangulation of the Comte de l’Abattoir and his entire party of Knights Companion, done at the very feasting table where they took their pleasure?”
Greyboar shrugged modestly. “It cannot be denied.”
“How foolish of me not to have recognized your name at once! My apologies, sirrah.”
The strangler dismissed the matter with a wave of his hand. Zulkeh turned to his apprentice.
“You are most fortunate, Shelyid, to make the acquaintance of such a universally admired master of his profession. In point of fact, not simply a master, but, according to the vast majority of experts, the modern exemplar of the chokester’s trade. Why, the Encyclopedia Ozarinica has gone so far as to state that Greyboar is the equal of any of the great asphyxiators of history, at least with regard to fingerwork, if not, perhaps, in force of contraction.”
“Sheer tonnage of gullet overpressure is the aspect of the trade which always impresses the amateur,” stated Greyboar. “But all practitioners of the craft know the secret lies entirely in the fingerwork.”
“I will certainly defer to your professional judgement on the matter,” spoke the mage. “As a philosophe, I am in any event more inclined to respect the aesthetic than the muscular aspects of your craft. And all connoisseurs of the art are agreed that the burking of de l’Abattoir and company was a masterpiece, a masterpiece—not alone in the extreme elongation of the several throats, but in the delicacy of detail. As I recall, each of the chokee’s necks was tied in a different knot, am I not correct?”
“I was particularly proud of the Blackwall hitch,” admitted Greyboar. “Sir Mordicus, that was.”
Zulkeh frowned. “I should tell you, sir—I speak now as one professional to another—that your reputation has been somewhat disparaged of late. An article appeared in a recent issue of The Journal of Contemporary Assassination, authored by none other than Dashiel Sfondrati-Piccolomini, in which he argues that your abilities, great though he admits them to be, have been cast in the shade by a rising Ozarine phenomenon by the name of Pythoneus.”
“That twerp!” cried a shrill voice. Turning, all saw that Ignace had left his chair and was hopping about in great agitation. “That juvenile braggart! That pipsqueak posturer! That no-thumbed puppy!” He glared at Greyboar. “I told you we should have squeezed his fanfaron gullet for him when the swaggering snot came through New Sfinctr!”