The Philosophical Strangler by Eric Flint

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Just as I was finishing up my tale of our misadventures in Prygg, a sudden hush came over The Trough. You couldn’t help notice it—by that time, late afternoon it was now, the place was getting packed.

I turned in my seat to see what had caused the unusual dip in the usual cacophony. A woman had entered The Trough, and was making her slow progress toward the bar.

The Cat.

“I’ll be damned,” I whispered. “I never thought she’d show up.”

The Cat was half blind to begin with, and, as dark as the room was, she had to fumble her route. Halfway to the bar she passed the Belly-Ups, groping and feeling her way.

Good lads, the Belly-Ups. Always sat at the same table, always friendly, and they were the bedrock of The Trough’s business. So they were very polite about the whole thing, even though their eyes were suddenly a lot less bleary than they had been.

She could produce that effect, the Cat. Strangest woman you’d ever meet, but there was no denying she was beautiful, in her own way. Tall, great figure, gorgeous yellow hair, bright blue eyes, a striking face—if you didn’t mind the long nose and the spectacles like beer bottles. Oh, yeah, and the three-foot sword belted to her waist. Put some guys off, that razor. Can’t imagine why.

Anyhow, she eventually found her way to the bar. I said hello and she nodded at me, vaguely. I’m not sure she really even saw me, her eyesight’s so bad. Then she ordered a vodka martini.

I’ll give him credit, Leuwen didn’t even blink an eye. Not your normal order in The Trough, a vodka martini, but Leuwen had one in front of her in seconds. She paid him, tried it, looked impressed. Hell, I was impressed—it was the first expression other than indifference I’d ever seen on her face. Except when she got onto the subject of Schrödinger, of course.

“That’s a good vodka martini,” she announced. Leuwen nodded placidly.

“Haven’t made one in a while,” he commented. “Nice change from pouring ale. You’re new here. What’s your name?”

“Schrödinger’s Cat.”

I kept a straight face. I’d have given thousand-to-one odds on Leuwen’s next sentence.

Yep, I’d have won again. He did a double take, then blurted out: “Who’s Schrödinger?”

“I wish I knew,” she replied. “I’m looking for him.” She took a sip. “When I find the bastard, he’s dog food. Haven’t seen him, have you?”

Leuwen said he’d never even heard of him. That was probably true, but even if Schrödinger was sitting next to her, Leuwen would’ve said the same thing. Neutral, he is, like any barkeep in the Flankn. Professional ethics, you know.

So then the Cat groped her way over to an empty table and sat there, slowly sipping her martini. Waiting for Greyboar, I guessed, though with her you never knew what was on her mind.

“You know her?” asked Leuwen.

I shrugged. “As much as anybody does, I imagine. That is one strange woman. Leave it to Greyboar to get the hots on the world’s weirdest female.”

Leuwen’s eyes widened. “She’s Greyboar’s girlfriend?”

I laughed. “In his dreams! We met her in Blain on the way back from Prygg. There was—”

I choked on the sentence, fell silent. It occurred to me that Leuwen hadn’t given any indication that he knew the slightest thing concerning the unfortunate affair in Blain, and I saw no reason to enlighten him.

Greyboar and I had run into her at Blain, on our way back from Prygg. “Run into her,” I admit, is a delicate way of putting it. But—it’s all part of that accursed business in Prygg, which was caused by Magrit taking up with the philosopher Zulkeh.

You want to know the main reason to avoid philosophy? It’s because where there’s philosophy, there’s always a philosopher. The real thing, too, not an amateur like Greyboar. As the wizard Zulkeh would put it, “the personal reification of the abstract essence.”

In this case, himself. Zulkeh of Goimr, physician. The most dangerous characters in the world, philosophers. None more so than the sorcerer Zulkeh, as I found out to my eternal chagrin when we got mixed up with the guy in Prygg. (That was Magrit’s fault, and accounts for the extreme altitude of her position on my personal shit list.)