Presiding over the Council was the witch Magrit herself. Also present were: Zulkeh and his apprentice Shelyid; Greyboar the strangler and his agent Ignace; Wolfgang Laebmauntsforscynneweëld, the lunatic; and six lowlifes, these latter a disreputable crew known to friend and foe alike as Les Six.
The meeting began badly.
“Insufferable!” stormed the wizard Zulkeh. “By what bizarre logic are these—these proletarian jackanapes!—present at this council?”
Six wide grins split six lumpy faces.
“The mage is affronted in his mind!” exclaimed the first.
“Aghast, appalled and taken aback!” added the second.
“And rightly so!” cried the third.
” ‘Tis a travesty to have present at such a learned gathering our lowly and loathsome like!” concurred the fourth.
“For are we not uneducated, untutored, unlettered and ignorant?” demanded the fifth.
“Rude, crude, lewd and uncouth, that’s us!” boomed the sixth. This was apparently something in the way of a ruffianly toast, for the six scalawags raised their teacups in unison, pinkies politely extended like so many small logs, and slurped noisily.
Zulkeh’s expostulation, even now gathering like a storm, was cut short by Magrit.
“Shut up, you old fart! And you! Yeah—you—Les Six! Quit baiting the wizard!” The six scoundrels looked aggrieved.
Magrit glared around the room. “I’m running this meeting, d’you all understand that? None of your clowning around, any of you!”
She settled her ample body back into her chair. Then spoke again:
“All right, here’s the deal. There’s something that needs to be carried out. It’s a task which is almost impossible. But with the people we’ve got here in this room, I think it can be done. And if it can, each of us stands to gain in some way. What is it? Simple—I want to steal a Rap Sheet.”
A collective gasp swept the room.
“A Rap Sheet!” exclaimed Ignace.
“But madame!” protested Zulkeh. “They’re all in Ozar—all known ones, that is. Except, perhaps, for the two reputed to be in the possession, respectively, of the Kaysar of All The Kushrau and the King of the Sundjhab.”
Magrit allowed the hubbub to quiet down before continuing.
“There are five Rap Sheets whose location is either known or surmised on good evidence, of the original six which Joe is supposed to have made for the cops at the beginning of time. As the wizard says, two of them are suspected to be in the hands of the Kushrau Kaysars and the Sundjhabi Kings. Although recent events cast some doubt on the latter,” she mused. “Didn’t seem to have done the King of the Sundjhab much good.”
Greyboar coughed. “Perhaps my guru left it behind on his recent sojourn to New Sfinctr,” he opined.
“His recent, abruptly-ended sojourn to New Sfinctr,” stated Magrit, pointedly staring at the strangler. Greyboar coughed again.
“Baloney!” snorted Ignace. “That old fr—uh, wise man—didn’t leave nothing behind. Take it from me—I was there! Luxuries like a sybarite’s dream, his suite at the hotel—and him squawking about philosophy the whole time!”
Greyboar glared at his agent.
“What’s this?” demanded Zulkeh. “Has some unfortunate accident befallen the King of the Sundjhab? I certainly hope not! A most eminent sage, His Highness—the preeminent expositor in our modern times of ethical entropism. Mind you, I myself do not share the King’s belief in the moral supremacy of the second law of thermodynamics, yet still there is no question—”
“The King’s dead,” interrupted Magrit. “No accident either,” she snorted, nodding at Greyboar, “unless you want to reckon him and his thumbs a genetic accident fallen on the unwitting human race.”
Greyboar flushed. It took a moment for her meaning to penetrate to the mage’s mind. Then did the sorcerer gasp, shock writ plain upon his face.
“What? Do I understand you to say that this—this assassin has throttled the King of Sundjhab?”
“And his heir, the Prince,” said Magrit.
“That’s why we’re hiding out here in Prygg,” complained Ignace. “It’d been okay if he’d just choked the King—the Prince hired us, and he’d have gotten the porkers off our back. But no!” he shrilled, “Mr. Philosophy Student here”—an accusing finger was leveled at Greyboar—”had to take exception to the Prince’s—and I quote—’disrespect for philosophy’ and go and squeeze his weasand for him, too! Not that the royal larva didn’t deserve it, I’ll admit, but still—talk about poor business practices!”