The Philosophical Strangler by Eric Flint

Eddie Black’s, it’s usually called. If you want to get formal about it, it’s The Stretch Where Eddie Black Was Probably Conceived. And if you really want to go black-tie over the matter, it’s The Stretch Where Eddie Black Was Probably Conceived If You Believe His Slut of a Mother and If You Ignore The Bloodstains Which Is What’s Left of Smooth-Talking Ferdinand After Eddie Black’s Father John-the-Ill-Tempered Carved Him Up On Account of How Eddie Black’s Pop Was Convinced That Eddie Was Actually Conceived Over There In What’s Now Called Ferdie’s Folly.

My spot, this. Always has been, since I was old enough to prop my chin on the Bar Itself.

And that’s the end of the tour. I’m thirsty, and enough’s enough.

* * *

“Welcome back, Ignace,” said Leuwen, shoving a mug across the bar. I contemplated the sacred object for a moment, before its contents disappeared into my gullet. Leuwen was obviously bursting with curiosity, but he’s the best barkeep in New Sfinctr—hands down—and so he waited for me to quaff two more full mugs before he started questioning me.

“So, how’s Prygg?” he asked. This, of course, was a meaningless question, nothing more than dancing around before he got into the juicy stuff. Leuwen’s interest in Prygg ranked somewhere below his interest in the taxonomy of flatworms.

I could dance too.

“Still there,” I replied.

“Glad to hear it,” he intoned cheerfully. “How’s Magrit? Still the same old proper witch?”

We were now bordering on a real question. Normally, I would have responded with a polite and reasonably informative answer, but the truth was that Magrit happened to be on my shit list at the moment—very high up on the list, in point of fact—and so I satisfied myself with a noncommittal grunt.

Leuwen wouldn’t let it go. “Hear she had to take it on the lam.”

Another grunt.

I didn’t think it would work. And it didn’t.

“Word is,” Leuwen plowed on, “she was mixed up in that business that brought in the Ozarine troops.”

Now we were treading on dangerous ground. I decided a grunt would be worse than an answer, so I tried to head Leuwen off.

“Yeah, that’s what I hear,” I said casually. “Wouldn’t know myself, Greyboar and me only bumped into her the once or—”

“Word is,” interrupted Leuwen, “she had some help in that little business. Real serious help. Serious muscle-type help, in fact.”

I sighed. It’s just as the wise man says: “Wisdom drops dead. Stupid shit’ll haunt you forever.”

There was no point dancing around it. Leuwen looked like a walrus, but nobody had ever accused him of having anything between his big ears but brains.

“All right,” I growled. “What’ve you heard?”

Leuwen grinned and started wiping his hands on the rag he always kept tucked into his belt. I watched the project carefully. The experienced Trough-man could gauge Leuwen’s exact mood and manner by the precise way in which he wiped his hands on that rag. Don’t ask me to explain the subtleties. Can’t be done. You either knew how to read them or you didn’t.

The hand-wiping looked ominous. I could read avid interest combined with rabid curiosity combined with—this was bad—shrewd deductions combined with—this was worse—experienced surmises combined with—oh, woe!—detailed half-knowledge of way, way, way too many facts.

“Well, let’s see,” he mused. “First off, I heard the proper witch managed to get into the Ozarine embassy and wreck the gala affair being held there to celebrate the recent wedding between Prygg’s very own Princess Snuffy and the Honorable Anthwerp Freckenrizzle III, scion of Ozar’s third richest multi-zillionaire. Trashed the social event of the season, she did. Or so people say.”

I frowned. Bad, but I could live with it.

“But,” continued Leuwen, as I feared he would, “the word is that Magrit’s little comet strike on high society wasn’t nothing but a cover. A diversion, people say, so that other parties could sneak into the top-secret super-security part of the Ozarine embassy and steal one of Ozar’s three Rap Sheets.”

I tried to control the wince, but I couldn’t. Leuwen didn’t miss it, of course, and the hand-wiping went into high gear.