The Philosophical Strangler by Eric Flint

Then we all got some sleep, so we’d be rested up for the long two days and nights ahead of us. Well, I didn’t get a lot of sleep. Angela and Jenny saw to that. After they’d worn me out, they kissed me on both cheeks and said, “We love you too, Ignace.” Then it was an odd thing, really. I cried for the first time since I was a kid. But I slept better than I had since then, too, even if it was only for a few hours.

* * *

The next morning, the game began.

Not long after sunrise, Greyboar and the Trio and I were lurking in the bushes next to the Cardinal’s mansion. Oddly enough for someone with his vices, Fornacaese was one of those weird early-to-bed-and-early-to-rise types. Was but a moment later that the Great Man of the Cloth emerged from his mansion. Eager to spend the day doing the Lord’s work, no doubt. But he hadn’t taken three steps before Jenny and Angela popped up from somewhere, calling out to him.

They really looked stunning, there wasn’t any two ways about it. Somehow they’d designed their dresses so they conveyed an impossible combination of demure innocence and barely repressed lust. Wasn’t two seconds after they came up to the Cardinal that His Grace’s tongue was hanging out.

We could hear their voices as clear as bells.

“Oh, Your Grace, we’re in such a horrible situation,” moaned Jenny.

“We thought—it’s forward of us, we know it is, you being such a great holy man and all, but—” This from Angela.

“Speak, my children,” slavered the Cardinal. “Unburden your troubled souls.”

“Well, you see, our parents have gone off to the spa.”

“Left us all alone.”

“Instructed us to behave properly.”

“But we’re troubled by the devils.”

“They come to us in our dreams.”

“Filling us with—with—with—”

“Speak, children, speak!” I swear, even from where I was hiding I could see the foam on his lips.

“—with thoughts of lust and depravity!” moaned Jenny.

“So we were wondering, Your Grace,” murmured Angela sweetly, “if you might come to our house and pray for us today—and maybe even through the night.”

“We don’t live far,” Jenny hastened to add. “Just a three-minute walk.”

Well, to sum it up, the Cardinal agreed that he would meet them at their house in a quarter of an hour. Anything to save two young and innocent souls, don’t you know?

Jenny and Angela left, sauntering down the street. The Cardinal raced into his mansion. Practically bowled over the doorman on the way in. Wasn’t but five minutes later that he came charging back out—and this time he did bowl over the doorman. And there he went, scuttling down the street like a crab, a holy book in one hand and two bottles of wine in the other.

We waited until he disappeared around the corner before we made our move. Then we went up to the front door. McDoul was in the fore, dressed identically to the Cardinal. Greyboar and I came behind, clothed in the red robes of the Inquisition. Erlic and G.J. brought up the rear, dressed like servants, bearing on their shoulders an enormous chest. They were huffing and puffing as if the chest were full of who knew what, instead of being almost empty.

The door opened. McDoul pushed his way in, with Greyboar right behind so as to pin the doorman against the wall with his shoulder.

“Your Grace!” gasped the doorman. “But—but—you just left but a moment ago!”

“Knave!” hissed McDoul, his face hidden in the cowl. “How long have you been in my service now?”

“Six years, Your Grace.”

“And you could be fooled by that impostor? He’s my double, you idiot!”

The doorman’s jaw was agape. “Your double, Your Grace?”

“Of course, my double! The enemies of the Church must be kept off guard! Imbecile!”

McDoul’s act was pretty much wasted. Because Greyboar had transfixed the doorman with The Stare, and after that the poor man was lost. McDoul hissed some vague nonsense about dark plots and foul machinations, and instructed the doorman to forget everything he’d just seen. By that point, I think the fellow had forgotten his own name.