Then, it got worse. My wail was cut off by a hand placed over my mouth. Two hands, actually. Not Greyboar’s dinner-plate mitts, but two little hands belonging to Jenny and Angela.
One from each. They’re not hard to distinguish between. Angela’s hands are small, well-shaped and beautiful. Jenny’s hands are exactly the same, except her fingers are longer. I could tell them apart in my sleep. I have, actually, not to put too fine a point on it. And if that comes across as a lecher’s remark, think again. It’s got nothing to do with that. They comfort me differently, that’s all. Can’t explain how, exactly, but they do.
I love those hands. Just as I love the faces that were staring at me.
Um. Squinting at me, to be precise. As in: exasperation, discontent, contumely. That sort of thing.
With ever-growing shock, I realized that Jenny and Angela had also been spending a lot of time with Greyboar and Gwendolyn since the journey began. Tête-à-quatratête, so to speak.
“We think it’s a great idea,” snapped Jenny. “You would too if you ever paid any attention to what we told you about what’s happening to the dwarves.”
Angela sneered. “Ignace? Pay attention to anything in the world except what’s going to make him a few quid? Ha!”
They were exceedingly disgruntled, now. I could tell. I tried to mumble something but the hands on my mouth just tightened down.
“Oughta cut him off for good, we should,” growled Jenny. “Him and his tight fist for a heart. Put him on a real budget.”
Angela snickered. “Great austerities. Be good for the midget. His heart wouldn’t be the only thing shrunk down to a walnut.”
To add insult to injury, Zulkeh added his advice.
“Splendid idea! A stratagem worthy of the ancients! Should you need guidance, damsels of dubious virtue, I shall be delighted to provided you with a copy of the classic treatise. Lysistrata Sfondrati-Piccolomini’s seminal—if you will pardon the expression—Do It Yourself, Big Shot; You’re a Man, Aren’t You?”
By now, I suspect I was whimpering. Jenny’s frown got crosser still.
Angela’s was even worse. “We are going to rescue the dwarves at Operation Nibelung. One of these days, when the time’s right. Magrit’s still figuring out the plan. Greyboar’s already agreed, and so have we. So’s the Cat, for that matter.”
My eyes rolled wildly in the direction of the Cat. The woman was standing not too far away, giving me her own cold-eyed stare.
“Et tu?” I managed to mumble through the fingers.
The Cat shrugged. “Sure. Why not? And Gwendolyn says Schrödinger may be there.”
“Bastard’s one of the `top scientists,’ according to one rumor,” Gwendolyn snarled.
It was hopeless. Everybody was against me. An outcast in my own land, you might say.
* * *
So I did the only rational thing, of course. I capitulated.
“Okay,” I mumbled. “I’ll help. When the time comes.”
Jenny and Angela’s squints were now so suspicious that their eyes were mere slits. But they moved their hands off my mouth.
“S’true!” I protested. “Give you my word.”
Squints. Squints.
Support came from an unexpected quarter. Gwendolyn, to my surprise.
“That’s good enough, girls,” she rumbled. (Oh, yeah. Gwendolyn talks in a rumble just like her brother. Different tone, of course. Contralto profundo, you might call it. Her voice is just like she is: beautiful in a way that’s hard to describe. Think of a very feminine avalanche.)
“Good enough,” she repeated. Gwendolyn moved up alongside Jenny and Angela. “He’s a little scoundrel, true—greedy as a sponge and with about as much concern for moral standards. But he’s no liar. Never has been.”
I stared up at Gwendolyn. Her hawk face loomed over me. A lot like Greyboar’s, that face. She’s got the same dark complexion, same black eyes, same kinky mass of hair—except hers is a glorious mane instead of a bramble—same raptor beak of a nose. How she manages to look gorgeous instead of just scary is a mystery to me, but she does. And look scary at the same time.
Suddenly, Gwendolyn’s face burst into a smile. Her smile, which is not quite like anything else in the world. Not a whole lot of warmth in it, mind you. Gwendolyn’s not what you’d call the sweet-and-sentimental type. But it’s such a real thing.