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The Philosophical Strangler by Eric Flint

The Prince’s companion nodded his head. “You may call me Rashkuta. My master’s name”—a nod to the Prince—”is of no import. His involvement in this affair must remain completely hidden.” He cleared his throat. “Our business is simple. My master’s birthright is barred by another, his uncle, whom we wish removed that my master may inherit his kingdom.”

“What about his uncle’s children?” demanded Greyboar. “D’you want I should burke the whole brood?” Sarcasm, this—Greyboar drew the line at throttling sprouts, save the occasional bratling.

The gibe went unnoticed. “It will not be necessary. In the Sundjhab, the line of descent passes from uncle to nephew. There are no others between my master and his due.”

“Odd sort of system,” mused Greyboar. “In Grotum, a man’s own children are his heirs.”

“Yours is a preposterous method!” decreed the Prince. “That a king’s children be his own is speculation, pure solipsism. But that a king’s sister’s children be of his own royal blood is certain.”

“A point,” allowed Greyboar. The royal nose lifted even higher.

“Let’s keep it to business,” I interjected. “There is a problem with your proposal. The Sundjhab is known to us here in New Sfinctr, but mostly as a land of legend and fable. Three obstacles are thus presented. First, it is far away. Second, should we arrive there, we are unfamiliar with the terrain. Finally, how will we make sure to collect our fee once the job is done?”

“Your concerns are moot,” replied Rashkuta. “My master’s uncle is touring the continent of Grotum. For the next week, he will be residing in New Sfinctr. The work can be done here. Indeed, it must be done here. Fearsome as are the guardians who accompany him on his travels, they are nothing compared to what surrounds him in his palace in the Sundjhab.”

His words jogged my memory. I had heard vague talk in the marketplace about some foreign mucky-muck on a visit. Couldn’t for the life of me understand why. What I mean is, if I’d been the King of the Sundjhab, I’d never have left the harem except to stagger to the treasure room. And I’d certainly not have come to New Sfinctr! The place is a pesthole. Probably some scheming and plotting going on. A dirty business, politics. Of course, it was great for the trade.

But a chokester’s agent can’t afford to let his mind wander. “Who are the King’s guardians?”

“They consist of the following,” replied Rashkuta. “First, the King has his elite soldiery, a body of twelve men, the cream of the Sundjhabi army—”

“Not to be compared to the buffoons in Sfinctrian uniform,” sneered the Prince.

“—secondly, he is accompanied by his Grand Sorcerer, one Dhaoji, a puissant thaumaturge—”

“Not to be compared to the fumbling potion-mixers called wizards in these heathen lands,” sneered the Prince.

“—and thirdly, should you penetrate these barriers, you will confront the Royal Bodyguard, Iyesu by name, who is a master of the ancient martial arts of the South.”

“Not to be compared to the grunting perspirers called fighters in your barbarous tongue,” sneered the Prince.

I looked at Greyboar. He nodded.

“We’ll take the job. Now, as to our fee. We will require ten thousand quid, payable half in advance and half upon completion. In addition, of course, to the twenty quid you owe us for this meeting.”

Our clients gaped. “But we were informed that you only charged one thousand quid for, uh, for your work!” protested Rashkuta.

“And we are only charging you a thousand quid for strangling the young master’s uncle,” I agreed cheerfully. “In addition, however, it is necessary to charge two thousand for the elite soldiers, three thousand for the unexcelled sorcerer, and a clean four thousand for the incomparable master of the martial arts. As a rule, such trifles come with the job. But—I am only respecting the Prince’s fiat—his uncle’s protectors are not to be compared to the riffraff we normally encounter in our work.” A nice touch, this. To be sure, I was demanding an outrageous fee. But I’d be a poor agent if I didn’t milk the Golden Cow when I could. “Greater greed is the greedy man’s gratuity,” as the wise man says.

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Categories: Eric, Flint
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