“Unfortunately,” continued Magrit, “you yourself are likely to be squashed in the course of this scheme’s unfolding, should you take no steps of your own, for it is well known that your authorities in today’s world care less than a fig about the fate of ordinary citizens.”
“I am hardly an ordinary citizen!” protested Zulkeh. “But yes, yes, I see your point. Oft have I noted the parlous state of the contemporary temporal powers.”
“And finally,” concluded the witch, “do you really think that the authorities have the competence to foil this scheme—whatever it is—hatched by your unknown and potent enemies?”
“Certainly not!” exclaimed the mage.
“Well, then?” The witch peered at Zulkeh intently. “Are you in, or not? And can we proceed without these constant philosophical quibbles?”
Zulkeh considered, then nodded his head. “I am with you, madame.”
Magrit now looked at Greyboar and Ignace.
“That leaves you two,” she said. “We won’t be able to steal the Rap Sheet without your help, for reasons that’ll become clear in a minute. However, I’ll admit there’s no real reason for you to do it.”
Greyboar scratched his chin. “Well, we do owe you a job.”
“Not one like this!” cried Ignace. “Choke one of your rivals, sure. Throttle a customer what owes you money, sure. But this? Steal a Rap Sheet from the Cruds? Take on the whole damn Imperial Republic of Ozarae? Get mixed up in Joe business?”
“It’s a bit much,” agreed the witch. “And if you don’t want to do it, I’ll understand. I’m sure I can find some suitable little chore for you instead.”
Greyboar cracked his knuckles. The windows rattled. “But you say you won’t be able to steal the Rap Sheet without us?”
Magrit shrugged. “No, probably not. Les Six have already agreed to try to fill in for you, if you don’t come in. But—well, they’re solid lads, but they’re not the world’s greatest strangler.”
Greyboar gazed at Ignace. “My agent makes all the business decisions,” he said mildly.
All eyes turned to Ignace. After a second or so, the little agent looked away. His face grew red, his cheeks puffed out. For a full minute, while silence filled the room, Ignace subjected the various objects cluttered about to a fierce and glowering inspection.
Suddenly, he threw up his hands, exhaling mightily.
“All right! All right! We’ll do it!”
For a split second, a strange expression crossed Magrit’s face. For just that moment, the horrid harridan seemed—soft?
“Are you sure?” she asked. “I’ll say it again, this is a lot more than the favor you owe me.”
Ignace glared at her.
“It’s got nothing to do with that, and you know it! Even if we didn’t owe you a favor, we’d go along.”
He now transferred his glare to the strangler.
Greyboar shrugged. “You know what chance she’ll have, with the Cruds bringing a Rap Sheet to Grotum. There’s never been much I could do for her, except that one time we got her out of the police station.”
“And much thanks we got for it, too!” shrilled the agent. His face was now beet red.
Greyboar smiled ruefully. “Gwendolyn’s always been hard to please.” He looked at Magrit, nodding. “We’re in.”
“Good. Now let me get to the practicalities of the thing. You’ll understand why I needed all of you to get the job done.”
* * *
Then did the witch Magrit present to the assembled party the outlines of her scheme, the which your narrator will briefly summarize:
The Rap Sheet was kept in a small room, deep in the bowels of the Ozarine Embassy. This Embassy was no modest edifice, but an ancient castle, perched high on a crag overlooking the city of Prygg and its harbor. The sole entrance to the castle was a drawbridge and portcullis, guarded by a large company of soldiery.
Within the castle, the room wherein the Rap Sheet was kept was fiercely protected. Entry to the room required passing through, first, a guard room wherein rested at all times the elite of the Embassy’s troops; second, yet another chamber in which dwelt some unknown horror; and finally, the Rap Sheet itself, which relic was guarded by bizarre glyphs and wards, the which could only be dispelled by great magic.