But at length they recovered, and Magrit, holding her ribs, managed to gasp: “You’d better stop him, Greyboar. I can’t afford to rebuild the place, and besides, I don’t want to have to mop up what’d be left of Ignace if the dwarf gets to him.”
And so it was, still laughing shamelessly, that the strangler staggered to his feet and seized Shelyid by the neck. Suspended in midair, the gnome turned his furious knifework upon Greyboar, but the huge chokester disarmed Shelyid—rather gently, oddly enough—and tucked the apprentice under his left arm. Then, reaching up into the rafters with his right hand, he hauled down the agent and deposited him with a thump on the floor. He then said to Ignace: “Next time, dummy, pick on someone your own size.”
And at this latest uncouth bon mot, he and Magrit again fell to hollering and backslapping. It appeared that Ignace did not share the humor, for after a moment the agent jumped to his feet and said to the strangler, in a tone of voice brooking no argument: “Greyboar! Strangle that dwarf!”
Greyboar gazed at his agent, tears of laughter still rolling down his cheeks.
“Why would I do that?” he asked.
“He insulted us, that’s why!” came the shrill reply.
“Us?” demanded Greyboar. “What’s with this ‘us’?” He didn’t insult me. Oh, and sure, I supposed you might feel insulted, being chased around like a cat by the Mouse From Hell”—again, he and the witch hooped and hollered disgracefully—”but that’s your problem.”
“What do you mean he didn’t insult you?” shrilled Ignace. “That’s how the whole thing started! I was just defending your honor! Didn’t he call you a common killer? The outrage! The disrespect to your person! To your professional standing!” Then, with the air of one playing a trump card: “To your philosophy of life!”
The strangler snorted derisively. “What a load of bullshit,” he said. “You—of all people—lecturing me on philosophy! Ha!” He glared at his agent. “But I’ll get back to that in a moment. First I’ve got to calm down Midget the Terrible here.” Another round of ridiculous gaiety.
Greyboar held up Shelyid before him and shook him like a terrier shaking a rat. More accurately, like a dragon shaking a mouse. This treatment finally snapped the dwarf out of his madness.
“That hurts!” complained Shelyid.
“That’s the idea,” commented Greyboar placidly. “Now look, midget—sorry—Shelyid, you’ve made your point, and made it quite thoroughly, but enough’s enough. I’m going to let you down now, but I want no more chasing after Ignace, you hear? He’s been my agent for a long time, and he’s the best in the business. Besides, I like the little hothead, even if sometimes he is a complete asshole.” Greyboar ignored Ignace’s squeal of outrage. “Is it a deal? If you still want to fight, well, that’s all right, too. But this time you’ll have to fight me, and I don’t suggest it. In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, I wouldn’t even think about it.”
The light of reason now having returned, Shelyid carefully examined the figure of the chokester, and nodded his head.
“S’a deal.”
“Good.” Greyboar set him on the floor, then turned to Ignace.
“Now, let’s get back to you,” he growled. “Philosophy—ha! From you—ha! First of all, my fair-weather little logician, the kid never insulted me once. Oh, and sure, he indicated reservations concerning the ethics of my trade. So what? Plenty of people have! My own sister Gwendolyn’s said more than once—right in front of you, too!—that I wasn’t nothing better than a thug and that I ought to mend my evil ways and go back to my honest job in the packinghouse. I didn’t see you rise to my defense then, push her in the face and knock her down, stand over her waving a knife and threaten to cut out her tongue. How come? Speak up!”
Ignace coughed. “Well, she’s your sister and all. Got to make allowances for family, you know, and besides—”
“What a load of bullshit!” interrupted Greyboar. A great sneer crossed his face. “Naturally, it doesn’t have nary to do with the fact that she’s almost as strong as I am and used to gut steers at her job in the slaughterhouse—each one with a single stroke of the knife, if you call that great cleaver of hers a ‘knife.’ “