The Philosophical Strangler by Eric Flint

“Verges on outright lawyering,” muttered O’Doul, glaring at me balefully.

I tried to make myself invisible.

Flannery resumed his seat. By now, another half-dozen ancients had shuffled up and drawn chairs about the table. Within moments all of them were deep into the wrangle. Chapter and verse were hurled about—not from lawbooks, of course, but from the hallowed precedents established by true and proper Trough-men, as codified in the collective memory of the ancients of The Trough. Most of the wrangling, as always, involved the reliability or lack thereof of the respective memories of the various ancients. Mutual derision gave way to an interchange of condemnations which, in turn, soon ceded central stage to a cross-blowing blizzard of personal insults and defamations of character.

In short, it was shaping up as a classic Ruling.

It was going to be a long evening. But, at that point, I was just as glad. By the time the ancients reached a Ruling, they’d hopefully have forgotten my lapses from custom.

Then, to my surprise, Greyboar settled the question. “I’ll do it,” he announced.

Silence fell upon the table, and over the crowd surrounding us. Disapproving silence. Very disapproving silence.

“The ancients haven’t rendered decision yet!” I protested.

“We most certainly ‘aven’t!” exclaimed these latter worthies, in one voice.

“I don’t care,” replied Greyboar. “I’ve decided I agree with Benvenuti and I’ll do as he asks.”

He rummaged in his pocket. “Of course, I mean no disrespect to the ancients, and I’ll naturally make recompense for lost ale.” He drew forth a fistful of coins, which, given the size of his fist, made a small treasure. I squawked, but the ancients were mollified. Moments later, the venerables were tottering back to the Old Bar, hollering for ale pots. Only the original three of us were left at the table.

Greyboar cleared his throat. “I do have one condition, Benvenuti.”

“Name it.”

“Well, it’s—it’s a bit personal. There’s a lady, you see—”

I rolled my eyes. Greyboar stammered into silence.

“You’d like her portrait painted,” stated the artist. Greyboar nodded. Shyly, if it can be believed.

“I should be delighted,” exclaimed Benvenuti. I started to squawk again, but he silenced me with a gesture. “Fear not, doughty agent! I shall be glad to perform this service entirely free of charge.”

Hearing that, I relaxed and took another draught of ale. Then, for the first time since we made his acquaintance, I grinned. He was still too damned handsome, but—you’ve got to make allowances for a man’s faults, when he has that kind of wicked sense of humor. Not to mention that fine appreciation of vengeance.

Benvenuti drained his mug and coughed apologetically. “I’m afraid,” he said, “haste is now necessary. The portrait must be turned over to the estate tomorrow.”

Leuwen provided us with an alcove on the second floor of The Trough. The Colon Coign, it’s called, so named following that famous episode in Trough lore and legend when, in the course of a friendly argument, Ethelbert the Murtherous accused Handsome Jack of being full of shit and Handsome Jack challenged him to prove it and Ethelbert the Murtherous did.

The lighting was terrible, of course, dark as a cellar. But it didn’t seem to bother the artist in the least. And I’ll say this—Benvenuti was an expert at his trade. It didn’t take him but a couple of hours to finish the painting, which was quick work given that he had to redo the Baron’s face as well as add the new material. Greyboar was so fascinated that he stayed to the very end, even after his own part as a model was finished. I stayed, too, as it happened.

Really, a wicked sense of humor.

When Benvenuti was finished, Greyboar and I examined the portrait intently.

“You’re good,” announced Greyboar.

By now, my initial hatred for the man had ebbed considerably, and I was positively awash with simple ill feeling. If there’s one thing I admire in a man, it’s a proper sense of retribution.

“Good?” I demanded. “He’s bloody great! The portrait’s perfect! Perfect, I tell you. I know—I was—uh, I have it on good authority.”

Benvenuti began packing away his supplies. “Sirrah Greyboar, I thank you for your gracious assistance. I shall need tomorrow morning to render up the portrait to the estate. Beginning in the afternoon, however—or anytime thereafter at your convenience—I shall be available to do a portrait of your lady. I can do it here, if you wish. But, if I might make the suggestion, it would go better at my studio. The lighting is much superior.”