“Make your report,” I heard a voice say. A hard, cold, cruel voice.
“The dead men are all Fangs, Mr. Inkman.”
Again, the cold sneering voice: “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“It’s hard to tell exactly what happened, sir. The wounds are strangely varied. Some were decapitated, as by an ax. Others skewered. An expert swordsman’s work, that—a cunning one, to boot. Perfect backstabs and low blows, the most of those killed by the sword. And then there are the three who look like they were clubbed by an ogre. Crushed flat, those were.”
“Three killers,” mused Inkman. Silence. Then, he spoke again: “What did you do with the bodies?”
A harsh laugh. “We put them in the lower catacombs. Rolled them right back up in the shrouds and bones they’d pitched. Nobody’ll look for them there. Certainly not the Goimr police! Couldn’t find their dicks in the dark, those clowns. And I don’t think there are any Fangs left alive in Goimria. Leastways, all the ones I knew are lying right now on cold stone slabs below. By the time God’s Own Tooth finds out what happened and sends another ferret pack, these’ll all be moldy bones.”
“Excellent! We’re the only ones who know what happened, then?”
A cough. “Well, not exactly, Mr. Inkman. The killers know what happened. Know more than we do, actually.”
“Them! Who cares? Hasn’t the Angel said it a thousand times? ‘It’s your friends who are the problem. Enemies take care of themselves.’ ”
“Yes, sir. That’s what he says, sir.”
“So! What could be more perfect? For once, the miserable Fangs will be in the dark, instead of us. The Angel will be very pleased. He’s been trying to convince the Committee and the Nabobs for months that it was time to send a Rap Sheet to Grotum. They’ve been stalling, listening to the damned Fangs whispering in their ear. ‘Don’t rouse the Groutch beast from its sleep.’ ‘Let Grotum lie.’ That’s all the Fangs ever say! Bah! Is the swelling grandeur of Ozar to be denied by these ancient legends of Grotum? Nonsense! It’s long past time we took firm and direct measures. The Senators will whine and whimper, of course, like a typical lot of politicians. But the Nabobs are made of sterner stuff. Especially the Director of Companies! Now there’s a man of action, after my own heart.”
“The Fangs won’t like it much, sir,” responded the second voice.
“There’s the beauty of it,” replied Inkman. “This little massacre here will throw them into a panic. And well it should! When was the last time a whole pack was wiped out to the last ferret?”
Silence. Then, Inkman again: “Never, that’s when. I can’t stand the holier-than-thou bastards, but there’s no denying they’re a murderous crew. Can you imagine the reaction of God’s Own Tooth when he hears? He’ll be baying for Groutch blood!”
“He’ll want to know who did it, too. Don’t you think we should—”
“Nonsense. What? Are we to waste our time trying to sort out which lot of Groutch malcontents butchered the Fangs? No, no, it won’t do. Remember the Angel’s motto: ‘Do in your friends first, and your enemies are bound to follow.’ ”
“As you say, sir.”
“So, let’s be off. You are sure you cleaned up all the evidence?”
“All except the bloodstains on the street. But who’ll notice that, in Grotum?”
“Well said! It won’t be long now before this entire miserable sub-continent bends its knee to Ozar. Not with a Rap Sheet here on the scene to help us.”
“Goimr will fall into our laps for sure, with a Rap Sheet.”
“Bah! Who wants Goimr? No, I’ll be proposing to the Angel that we start with the Rap Sheet in Prygg. I know he’ll agree. He’s often said Prygg was the key to Grotum.”
The last sentence I only heard faintly, for the voices were dwindling into the distance. When I looked up, I was struck by the differing ways in which my two companions in the cell were reacting to the conversation we had just overheard.
Wolfgang was grinning from ear to ear.
Gwendolyn’s face was flushed with fury.
“The Ozarine dogs!” she cried. “The filthy Cruds!”