The Philosophical Strangler by Eric Flint

Mind you, I’m really not that big a fan of “rural scenery.” Plants are pretty much all green, when you get down it, and if you’ve seen one tree you’ve pretty much seen them all. Still—it was nice to get away from New Sfinctr. Much as I’m a city lad, I’m not about to claim the place isn’t a pure and simple eyesore.

Not to mention nose-sore. True, New Sfinctr does have what they call a “sewer system.” Queen Belladonna prided herself on what she called her “modernization program,” also referred to as the “window to the east.”

But it doesn’t really do much good to build a sewer system when the work is contracted out to cronies and the powers-that-be are spending too much on their palaces to waste money on such frills as hiring actual sewer workers. Instead, the powers-that-be would periodically order the porkers to round up some “vagrant” dwarves and set them to work in the sewers. Which is the kind of idea that only Sfinctrian dimwit officials would come up with, since once you let a dwarf get underground you can pretty much kiss that dwarf good-bye.

New impromptu and unplanned sewer, coming up—and off he goes. The end result being not only that the sewers still aren’t cleaned but you soon have a “sewer system” that’s more system than sewer, if you know what I mean. You know that kind of cheese that’s mostly holes instead of cheese? If so, you get the picture.

Ah, yes. Fresh air, sunshine, the lot. It really was pretty nice. Especially after we popped open the wine and the nice bread Jenny and Angela bought, and they dug into their baskets and brought out the meat pies and the kind of cheese that’s mostly holes instead of cheese, which is fine by me because I don’t like cheese.

Then it got even better because Madame Frissault—Hrundig’s girlfriend—opened up the huge baskets she and her daughters had brought along and it turned out they’d spent a whole day baking practically anything that can be baked. And they were good bakers.

At that point, I became reconciled to the whole thing. I admit, my change of mood was helped along by the fact that Madame Frissault—Olga, as she insisted we call her—was a very jolly kind of lady and her daughters were pleasant enough. Very pretty, too, all three of them. Which, for me, was what they call an “academic question,” but it was still nice to see.

Soon enough, it became clear that all three girls had a massive crush on Benny. Especially the oldest, Beatrice, who was maybe a little older than Jenny. Beatrice looked a lot like her mother. Dark-haired and dark-complexioned, almost as much as Angela. A little on the plump side, in an attractive buxom kind of way, with a face that wasn’t exactly pretty but so pleasant that it was really very pretty, if that makes any sense at all. I thought the pince-nez spectacles perched on her nose were a little silly, but from the way the girl devoured books the whole trip, I suppose it wasn’t really an affectation.

But while Benny obviously felt very affectionate toward the daughters, and was always flirting a little with Beatrice, there wasn’t anything in it. If you know what I mean. A very handsome and sophisticated man in his mid-twenties handling a teenager’s crush on him with ease and gentility and a heart of gold.

It was so tiresome. Especially having to listen to Jenny and Angela babble on in our stateroom about the artist’s splendid personal qualities. Which, needless to say, they highlighted with the occasional contrast to another individual. So tiresome.

“Why d’you put up with me, then?” I snarled at one point. “And stop telling me I’m cute! Just because I’m a red-headed freckled shrimp doesn’t make me a pet!”

I was sitting cross-legged at the head of the big bed in our stateroom. Jenny and Angela were sitting in the same position in the center of the bed. I crossed my arms over my chest and assumed a pose of great dignity.

“Pout—pout—pout!” squealed Angela gleefully, clapping her hands.

Jenny grinned. “I do believe his feelings are hurt,” she cooed.