Stupid, of course, all of it. A total waste of time and effort. I should have remembered the sayings of the wise man: “Don’t bother looking for trouble. It’ll find you all on its own.” Or: “When troubles come, they come not in single spies but battalions.” (I think he stole that one; doesn’t really sound like him.)
Or, of course, the classic: “You want to relax? Drop dead.”
But, still—
The way it happened was so unfair.
* * *
“You’ve got guests,” announced Angela.
I jumped, and spun around from the peephole in the front door. “Who? Where?”
Angela was standing in the entrance to the front parlor, grinning like an imp. Jenny’s face was perched over her shoulder.
“Lots of them,” added Jenny. Grinning like an imp.
I peered at the pair suspiciously. I didn’t like the expression on their faces. Not one bit. Not at all.
Partly that was from bitter experience. Partly it was simple indignation. No girls that young and fresh and good-looking should be able to imitate denizens of the underworld.
But mostly it was because another of the wise man’s sayings was clanging in my mind: When the cat looks like it’s swallowed the canary, start chirping.
“Who?” I demanded again. “Where?” I repeated. “No one’s come near the house. I’ve been watching!”
The faces got impier. You know that look. The one where the guilty party wallows in their guilt. Basks in their sin. My stomach felt like lead. I looked down at the floor.
“Through the Railroad, of course,” chirped Angela. “How else?”
“From be . . . low . . .” quavered Jenny, in a tone of mock doom. She and Angela burst into laughter.
Not fair!
Chapter 23.
A Crazy Proposal
Angela and Jenny led me into the “salon,” as they liked to call
it.
Disaster, sure enough.
Not just one calamity, either, but a whole collection. There they were:
Zulkeh, the pedant from perdition.
Shelyid, the dwarf from disaster.
Hrundig, the mercenary from—never mind. (And just what the hell was he doing in that company, anyway?)
Magrit, the proper witch. And her familiar—the salamander Wittgenstein.
Finally, of course, Gwendolyn.
* * *
Greyboar was already there, standing in one of the other doorways leading into the salon. The Cat was pushing her way past him, drifting her way into the room.
” ‘Lo, Gwendolyn,” I heard him mumble.
The chokester seemed in a bit of a daze. He looked around for a place to sit, but there wasn’t any. The couch and the two chairs we had were already taken by the guests. (I kept a tight lid on frivolous expenses, you understand.)
” ‘Lo, brother,” came her response. She wasn’t quite frowning—you’ve never seen a real frown until you’ve seen Gwendolyn’s, let me tell you—but she certainly didn’t seem overjoyed to see her long-lost brother. Tense as a coil of steel.
The ice was broken by Shelyid. The dwarf sprang off his chair and raced over to Greyboar, squealing his happy greetings. A moment later, he was hugging the strangler’s right knee.
Greyboar winced. You wouldn’t think it, looking at the little guy, but Shelyid’s as strong as an ogre. Strange dwarf. Ugly as sin, for one thing. Hairier than a musk ox, for another.
“Hey, take it easy, Shelyid.”
“Oh! Sorry.” The dwarf released Greyboar’s leg and grinned up at him. Greyboar grinned back. He’s really very fond of that dwarf.
So am I, actually. A bit to my regret, then, because Shelyid raced over and gave me the same hug. I thought my ribcage was going to go, but I was surprised at how happy I was to see him.
Then Wittgenstein piped up and I wasn’t surprised at how much I hadn’t missed the slimy creature. “Isn’t that sweet, Magrit? Midgets meet again.”
“Shut up, Wittgenstein,” growled the witch. “We’re supposed to be on our best behavior.”
“That is my best behavior,” groused the salamander. “What am I supposed to do? Be polite?”
Greyboar nodded to Magrit. “I see you escaped the Cruds. I was a little worried when we heard the Ozarines had invaded Prygg.”
The witch sneered. “Those chumps? They couldn’t have caught me even if I hadn’t had the Rap Sheet.”