“I’m a man likes peace and tranquility,” commented the strangler mildly. “And what’s all this about, anyway?”
The minutes which followed did not, one suspects, take their place among the mage’s fondest memories. For Les Six and Magrit proceeded to provide Greyboar and Ignace with the biography of the dwarf Shelyid, as the youth had recounted it to them over the hours gone by. Particular emphasis was placed on the apprentice’s relationship to his master. More precisely, on the wizard’s notions of discipline, and his concept of the rights of masters over their wards.
As the story unfolded, Shelyid attempted, on several occasions, to lighten somewhat a tale which, it is difficult to deny, would seem dark to the uninformed listener.
“Oh no!” he cried in one instance, “You’re exaggerating like you shouldn’t! The master only beat me seven times that day, not ten! And it’s true, I was really slow to learn the lesson.” He blushed. “I’m never good at theology, especially the part about how God’s love of man is expressed in crippling diseases and such.” Then, in a small voice: “It’s ’cause I’m so stupid, and you have to be real smart to understand theology. Really, really smart—like a genius. Like the master.”
“And there’s another point we’ll be needing to discuss, good my mage,” stated the first.
“The constant emphasis on the youth’s lack of brains,” explained the second.
“As contrasted with the brilliance of the scholar,” elaborated the third.
“With which we ourselves will soon be blessed!” cried the fourth.
“As the illuminatus corrects our dull-witted mistakes—” The fifth.
“Our crude technique—” The sixth.
“Our disrespect for the classics—” The first.
“Our gross ignorance of the fine points—” The second.
“As laid down in the writings of Jack Ketch Laebmauntsforscynneweëld—” The third.
“Vigilante Sfondrati-Piccolomini—” The fourth.
Fortunately for the mage, this particular round was again quelled by Greyboar. Even more than the strangler’s warning growl, however, it was perhaps the sight of the little apprentice moving over to stand by Zulkeh’s side which caused Les Six to settle back in their chairs.
The strangler himself made no comments throughout the entire tale. Early on, Greyboar rose and went to the fireplace. He returned to his seat holding the great iron poker which stood by the mantel. In the minutes which followed, the strangler proceeded to idle away the time twisting the poker into a succession of knots. During the recital of Zulkeh’s various attempts at the Caravanserai to sell Shelyid to slavers and circus owners, Greyboar tired of knot-tying. He now stretched the poker into a long iron wire, with which he idled away further minutes making a cat’s cradle.
For his part, Ignace spoke just once, saying: “Boy, I thought my pop was bad, before he died. And he had the excuse of being a drunk.”
At length the biographical project came to an end. There followed a minute’s silence, which was broken by Greyboar.
“There’s one thing in all this puzzles me.” He looked at Zulkeh and said: “I’ve had the dubious privilege of carrying that weight of the world’s sins you call a sack. I doubt you could even pick it up, much less move with it. So who was supposed to carry your sack? After you’d sold the kid into slavery, I mean?”
Zulkeh frowned, stroked his beard.
“Actually,” he began. Stopped. Then: “Well, that is to say, actually.” Stopped. Then: “I confess I had not considered the point. No doubt I should have engaged a porter.”
“You’d have needed to hire a crew of teamsters, more like,” grunted Greyboar. The strangler shook his head. “What a genius. He tries to sell his apprentice into slavery so he can get enough money to go on saving the world, but in order to save the world he needs his sack, so he’d have to use the money to hire people to carry the sack the apprentice was already carrying all by himself for—what was it?—a shilling a year and, in good times, maybe the odd meal once a day.” A snort. “You always hear about absent-minded professors—but!”
Then he rose, stretched his muscles. This awesome action was perhaps not done unconsciously, for the strangler proceeded to say to Les Six: