“Really?” Greyboar’s curiosity was aroused; best way to distract him. “What is it?”
“How should I know? Since when does Magrit divulge trade secrets?”
“True,” mused the strangler. “A proper witch, she is.”
“Best in the business. None of your epistemology for old Magrit! Cuts right to the quick, she does. As for the potion, all I know is that when she gave it to me she said it was tailor-made to take out any obnoxious wizard that got in the way.”
“But how will you get him to drink it?”
I snorted. “Intravenous injection, that’s the thing.”
In the blink of an eye, I whipped out the little blowpipe from its pouch in my cloak. A second later, a dart was quivering in the bull’s-eye of the dart board against the far wall. The crowd playing darts looked over, frowning fiercely, but when they saw who the culprit was they relaxed. Fergus even brought the dart over and handed it back. I was popular with the lads at The Trough.
“If that big gorilla wasn’t here, I’d bust your head,” grumbled Fergus.
“Don’t let me stop you,” said Greyboar instantly. I cast him an aggrieved look. Fergus smiled, then shrugged.
“Ah, what the hell? The shrimp’s good for comic relief. And if we ever get bored with darts, we can always use him to play toss-the-midget.”
A round of laughter swept The Trough. I was not amused. After a while, my glare finally quieted Greyboar’s bass braying.
“Oh, stop glaring,” he chuckled. “It serves you right, showing off like that. All this fancy stuff you do with darts and knives—it’s just overcompensation ’cause you’re such a little guy. Now, if you’d apply yourself to a study of philosophy—”
And there he was, off again. Injury added to insult.
* * *
At midnight, Greyboar and I slipped through the back door of the Hospice. Rashkuta was there to let us in, as promised. It was obvious, from his twitchy face and trembling limbs, that his nerves were not of the best. A bloodthirsty lot, your strangler’s customers, when it comes to the theory of the thing. But when the deed’s to be done, their knees turn to water. Else why hire a chokester? It’s a simple enough matter, all things considered, to shorten a man’s life.
Quickly, Rashkuta guided us through the Hospice’s maze of stairways and corridors. We encountered no one, which was fortunate, as Greyboar and I were rather stunned by the place. Not our normal haunts, don’t you know? Eventually, we arrived at an immense double door carved out of a solid slab of some exotic hardwood. There was enough gilt on the handles alone to drown a whale.
“The door is locked,” whispered Rashkuta, “with an intricate and powerful lock constructed by the King’s master locksmith, brought especially from the Sundjhab for the occasion.”
“No problem,” grunted Greyboar. He looked at me. “Are you ready, Ignace?” I shrugged.
“A moment, please!” hissed Rashkuta, and scurried down the corridor. Customers, like I said.
Greyboar seized the handles and tore the doors off their hinges. Entering, we beheld an antechamber, empty except for four guards. These lads were bare from the waist up, clad in baggy blue trousers tied up at their ankles. Curl-toed red slippers completed their uniforms. Funny-looking, sure, but each one held a huge scimitar, and there was no denying they were splendid soldiers. Though caught by surprise, they were on top of us in a heartbeat.
Upon Greyboar, to be precise, for I naturally took myself to one side. Not for me, this sort of melee.
The foremost soldier, muscles writhing like boas, swung a blow of his scimitar that would’ve felled a cedar. But Greyboar seized his wrist in midstroke and tore the arm out of its socket and clubbed the other three senseless and that was that.
“Aside from the professional fingerwork,” Greyboar liked to say, “I think of my methods as a classic application of Occam’s Razor.”
To the left stood an open door, leading to the guards’ quarters. Beyond, a group of soldiers were scrambling from a table where some exotic game was in progress. The most enterprising of the lot was even now at the door, scimitar waving about.