The strangler’s black eyes glanced around the little room, like rats looking for a place to hide. I tried not to look smug.
“Well, I don’t know . . .”
“Oh, come on!” chirped Angela. “Sure, and just having him around will probably makes you feel sad, reminding you of your estranged sister and everything. But you’re always sad about that, anyway.”
“So’s Ignace,” chirped Jenny. She was standing right behind me, her hands on my shoulders. I stiffened and started to utter a protest, but she clapped her hands over my mouth. “Is too!” she chirped. “Keep talking, Angela!”
“And besides,” Angela chirped on, “it’s your plain and simple philosophical duty.” Greyboar’s eyes almost bulged. “Didn’t Ignace say anybody who’d fall in love with Gwendolyn is nuts? And an artist! He’s bound to have an angle on entropy, whatever the silly thing is, that you never even thought of. Probably lots of them.”
Greyboar’s eyes got unfocused. Oh, no! I thought.
“Good point,” he said. “Sure—why not?”
* * *
So Jenny and Angela and Greyboar and the Cat hired a carriage and charged off to see the artist. I stayed behind, sulking.
Then—then!—when they got back, it turned out they’d decided to invite Hrundig, too. That had been Angela’s idea, seeing as how she’d been charmed by how nice Hrundig had been the first time they visited, even if he was a brutal barbarian mercenary.
“He’s a brutal barbarian mercenary!” I protested.
Angela frowned at me. “And so what? You and Greyboar are brutal mercenaries, aren’t you? And without even the excuse of being barbarians!” She patted me on the cheek. “But we don’t hold it against you, now, do we? Not much, anyway.”
I choked and spluttered, trying to come up with a counter. Greyboar just looked sheepish. “Well . . .” he muttered. “Well . . .”
“Are too!” chirped Jenny. “Depraved and horrible desperadoes, even if you’re actually kind of sweet and Ignace isn’t but he’s real cute and Angela and I like the way he fusses over us even if he is a pain in the ass sometimes.”
I choked and spluttered, trying to come up with a counter. Greyboar just gave me a sweet smile. Sickening, it was.
Then—then!—it turned out that Hrundig had a girlfriend and he asked if he could bring her along. By that point, Greyboar and I were completely at sea. “Sure, why not?” one of us muttered. Can’t remember which one.
Then—then!—it turned out Hrundig’s girlfriend was a widow with three daughters and she wanted to know if she could bring them along. I don’t think either Greyboar or I even muttered, at that point.
The thing was turning into a damned migrating barbarian horde!
And the worst of it was—who was going to pay for all this? As if I didn’t know.
Yup. “It’s our treat, you little tightwad,” growled Greyboar. “Try to be a little gentlemanly about it, will you?”
About the only bright spot in the whole thing was that after we decided we had to rent one of those expensive pleasure barges, it turned out that Benvenuti was an experienced yachtsman—was there anything the damned man couldn’t do?—and Hrundig, of course, was an experienced sailor in a different kind of way—not that we’re planning to plunder any monasteries, of course—so we were able to save money on hiring a crew as well.
Which, of course, didn’t really save us any money at all because as soon as they heard that, Jenny and Angela started oohing and ahing over the most expensive and luxurious barge at the piers instead of the perfectly good little commercial fishing craft that I had my eye on—okay, so it smells a little, so what?—and the Cat made some offhand remark about the pleasures of wallowing for a week in offal and that was that. One gold-plated barge coming up.
* * *
I admit it was a nice barge. Very nice, in fact. Everybody had staterooms and everything, and the “accouterments,” as they say, were, as they say, “nonpareil.” And once we pushed off from the wharf and I resigned myself to the inevitable, I found myself actually starting to look forward to the trip. Especially once we sailed up the river out of the city, heading south into the countryside.