The Philosophical Strangler by Eric Flint

Angela squealed again. “Feelings! We’re making progress!” A moment later both of them had me on my back and were tickling me mercilessly.

And I hate being tickled!

Well . . . usually.

In this case, it wasn’t so bad, because one thing led to another and maybe an hour or so later I was feeling better. A lot better, actually. Especially after Angela fell asleep with her head nestled on my chest and Jenny kissed me and whispered, “Don’t worry about it, Ignace. We’re a little family now, sort of. Even if it’s illegal by law and we’re dead meat if the Church catches us. A real one, not like what Angela had and I lost.”

I turned my head and looked at her, and saw that for once Jenny wasn’t teasing me. There wasn’t any smile at all on her lips, just in her eyes. Blue eyes as clear as the sky almost never gets in New Sfinctr.

I felt an ache coming up and pushed it under. I guess my lips must have tightened or something, because Jenny started shaking her head. “Sooner or later, Ignace, it’s going to come out.”

I guess I must have shaken my own head, because Jenny put her hands on my cheeks and made me look at her. “Yes, it will,” she whispered, and then pulled my face into her neck. “Got to.”

It was a tender moment, really was. Then, of course, Jenny had to go ruin it by laughing and saying: “Got to! You fuss too much over everything to leave anything alone! S’true!”

Needless to say, I started denying the ridiculous charge—and vigorously, too!—but that woke up Angela and once she got wind of the argument I was outnumbered again.

And I hate being tickled!

* * *

That night, we pulled into one of those spas that they have for rich people up the river and took rooms in what they called The Lodge. Silly name for a hotel, if you ask me. Like calling a restaurant The Eat. But I kept the sarcastic thought to myself, lest I be accused of uncouthness or something.

To be honest, I was a bit worried about the whole thing. While Greyboar and I were definitely “men about town,” this was what you might call a whole different kind of town. I was half sure they’d take one look at us and pitch us out on our ear, even if Greyboar and I were wearing our best outfits.

But, again—life is so unfair—Benvenuti proved to be a master at the kind of suave assurance that gets all doors opened and the carpets rolled out. And Olga Frissault underwent a magical transformation from a cheerful mother on an outing to a grim, implacable matron of high society. Every desk clerk and bellhop in the place avoided her gaze like they would that of a basilisk.

So, even though Greyboar and I and Hrundig got a few skeptical glances, there was no trouble. In fact, Benny wrangled up an entire set of interconnected suites, complete with our own small little dining room.

“I think we should perhaps stay here for the rest of the week,” Olga suggested tentatively, after the bellhops left and the door was closed. “There’s really not much change in the scenery until you get to Murraine, and—”

Greyboar coughed. I think I started hacking.

“Not a good idea,” I managed to get out. Hack, hack. “By all means—let’s stay here!”

“By all means,” rumbled Greyboar. “Splendid idea.”

Olga seemed a little startled at our eager agreement. Hrundig gave us that humorless grin he does better than anybody I’ve ever seen except a shark I saw once in a nightmare.

“Job went sour, eh?” he chuckled.

I glared at him. For a moment—it was on the tip of my tongue!—I almost blurted out a hot retort. Sour, my ass! We made a bundle! But, under the circumstances, it would have perhaps been uncultured. Especially if I had to explain exactly why the Duke of Murraine might view our presence with disfavor. Not, mind you, that the gentleman had any reason to hold a grudge. Quite the contrary! But he might start wondering who else had paid for our services. And, dukes being dukes, might leap to the assumption that his heir apparent—