The Philosophical Strangler by Eric Flint

By the time I got back, Greyboar had reconciled himself to reality. Sort of.

“You know how hard it’s going to be, just getting to Avare to put the thumbs on him?” he demanded.

“D’you mind if I sit down first, before you start grousing?”

Once seated, I said: “Yeah, I know it’s going to be more difficult than our usual jobs. But look at the bright side—I was able to crank our fee way up, moaning and groaning to the little snot about the insuperable challenges ahead.”

“How much are we getting, anyway?” he asked sulkily.

I played the trump card. “Five thousand quid.”

The sulky look vanished. Greyboar whistled. “Not bad, Ignace, not bad at all.”

“Not bad?” I demanded. “It’s better than three times our normal fee! It’s as much as the old miser would have paid us for five or six jobs. And I didn’t have to spend hours listening to the old coot demanding a discount for volume trade.”

“All right, already,” grumbled Greyboar. “I don’t want to hear it again. I’ll admit, it’s a very good commission. Still and all, I think this job’s going to prove a bad move in the end. Entropy, you know? The natural tendency of the universe to run down. You think you can get around it, but—”

“Will you shut up about your damned entropy?”

Once again, we were glaring at each other. Greyboar gave it up first.

“All right. I’ll shut up about the entropy if you’ll stop crowing about the job. I still think—never mind. Let’s get down to brass tacks. How are we going to get to Avare?”

Before I could answer, there was a knock on our door. I got up and opened it. Surprised, I was.

“Henry?” I’m afraid my jaw was probably hanging down. The last person I’d expected!

But it was him, no question about it. Henry—old man Avare’s manservant and general gofer. We knew him well. He was always the one who came and told us that Avare “desired our company.”

Sure enough. Henry nodded politely, and then announced: “Monsieur Avare would desire the company of you gentlemen. Tonight at eight o’clock, if you would.”

Greyboar started to say something, but I silenced him with a gesture. “Certainly, Henry. Greyboar and I would be delighted to come. Eight o’clock—we shall be prompt.”

As soon as Henry left and I’d closed the door, Greyboar started right in.

“What are you doing, you little squirt? You know we can’t take another job from old Avare now!” He glowered fiercely. “There’s a matter of professional ethics involved here!”

“Who said anything about doing a job for him?” I demanded. “Was there any mention of a job? Did Henry say anything about a job? Did we agree to do a job? Did any money change hands? Was the crude subject of money even mentioned? No! We were simply invited over to the old miser’s mansion for brandy. What better way to get in to see him? Without having to fight our way through an army of guards and watchdogs? We just waltz into the mansion, and then, as soon as Henry’s poured the brandy and left the room, like he always does, you do the choke. Then we leave. By the time anybody figures out something’s wrong, we’ll be long gone.”

Greyboar was frowning ferociously. Before he could say anything, I continued:

“Sure, and it’ll be obvious we did the choke, but so what? We’ll have to hide out for a bit, while the porkers make a show of looking for us. But we won’t even have to leave the Flankn. And you know the porkers won’t try all that hard to find us. The truth is, Avare’s made himself plenty of enemies in this town—especially among the upper crust, half of whom owe him a fortune. There’ll be counts and barons and earls and who knows what greasing the porkers’ palms to let the whole thing slide.”

He sighed. “Yeah, yeah, I know it’ll work. But I don’t like it. Your scheme bends professional ethics into a pretzel.”

“And so what?” I couldn’t pass up the opening. “You’re a philosopher, aren’t you? What else is philosophy good for if not splitting the hair between bending and breaking?”