The Philosophical Strangler by Eric Flint

“Only take a minute!” he cried. “Relax, Jack—you can still make lunch. Don’t want to miss it, either. Chipped virgin on toast, today.”

Once he was standing in front of Greyboar and me, the newcomer assumed as dignified a stance as a beachball-shaped demon-sort-of-thing can.

“I’m Fred, by the way. You can read all about me in Logarithms II, Verse Three. The business about not eating armadillos with cranberry sauce. Now. Repeat after me: `I solemnly swear . . .’ ”

This nonsense went on for some time, while Greyboar and I swore to abandon all evil and wickedness and devote our remaining days to righting wrongs and blather blather blather.

And still the saints weren’t satisfied.

“New profession!” they intoned. “New profession! Need new professional ethics! Only thing can be trusted!”

“Quite right!” agreed Fred. “What’ll it be, gents? Professional Flagellants? Career Whipping Boys? Mercenary Village Idiots? Or—” Here, a great sneer rippled his face. “Professional Heroes?”

I gagged. What a choice!

But Greyboar didn’t hesitate. “Hero,” he growled.

“Third, Second, First Class—or Excelsior?” demanded Fred.

My agent’s instincts did us in, there. Because—not understanding the new rules—I immediately piped: “Excelsior! Greyboar’s the best!”

The saints and fallen angels snickered. I got a sinking feeling in my stomach.

“Good move, Ignace,” hissed Magrit from somewhere behind me. “Third Class only has to tackle stuff like local bullies.”

“And you even get to charge a fee,” cackled Wittgenstein. “Just a token, of course, but it beats the rules for Professional Hero, Excelsior, which are—”

I didn’t hear the rest, though, because Jack was already gleefully stamping our names with some kind of official-looking seal and Greyboar was hauling me toward the Evil Horizon.

“Let’s go,” he said. “May as well get it over with.”

“What about the Cat?” I whined. “She hasn’t had her turn yet.”

Greyboar started running toward the Evil Horizon. For all practical purposes, he was carrying me in one hand. I could see Hrundig pounding after us. Along the way, Gwendolyn tossed him a bag holding something lumpy-looking.

“That’s why I’m in a hurry!” he snapped. “She already went through.”

I must have been gaping. Greyboar chuckled. “What? Rules? You know anything can keep the Cat out if she feels like going through?”

The Evil Horizon was looming over us. I could feel the tidal pull in my soul. And if you don’t think that’s a weird and scary feeling, think again.

“I just want to get there before she gets herself hurt,” he muttered.

The Horizon was upon us! I was being torn in half! (Spiritually speaking.) Greyboar picked me up and we went through in a leap.

Chapter 30.

Into Even Worse Hands

When we landed on the other side, my senses were still

befuddled. It didn’t help any that Greyboar must have jumped through leading with his shoulder so we arrived all discombobulated and tangled up. He tripped, but at least he had the good grace not to land on top of me.

I bounced off, while he scrambled out from under, trying to get my bearings. Things weren’t helped any when Hrundig came through and avoided tripping over me by stepping on me!

But I wasn’t so disoriented that I didn’t understand what Greyboar was shouting. My heart froze. Just the words I most didn’t want to hear.

“We’re just in the nick of time!”

Trust me on this one. If you ever go adventuring, always try to find the situation where the appropriate words are: “Damn! We’re too late! The villain hath done his villainy and decamped to parts unknown!”

Beats just in the nick of time, let me tell you. Parts unknown is the best place for villains, in my book. As the wise man says: “The only scientific definition of evil is that you can’t ignore it.”

I raised my head and stared at the scene in front of me. We were in another cavern, also lit by the same glittering gold-fire, but this one was built on a smaller scale. The ceiling was especially low, not more than twenty feet above our heads. But I didn’t spend much time looking at anything except the person we had come to rescue. Benvenuti Sfondrati-Piccolomini himself, in the flesh.