First, they talked the Queen of Sfinctria, Belladonna III, into sending the Seventh Cavaliers to raze the Abbey and deliver Hildegard over to the Inquisition. Then, after the Seventh Cavaliers disappeared in Joe’s Favorite Woods (that’s the forest which surrounds the Abbey), the Queen sent the whole Third Royal Regiment to do the job. After they disappeared, she gave it up. Got in quite a tiff with the Ecclesiarchy about the whole thing.
So, finally, the Ecclesiarchy pulled out all the stops and ordered the gentle monks of the monastery of St. Shriven-on-the-Moor into action. The gentle monks murmured and muttered amongst themselves, working up their usual pogromist fury. But then, to everyone’s astonishment, they settled down and told the Popes they couldn’t do it. Seems they’d gotten a vision from the Old Geister himself, the gist of which was that falling on the Abbey of the Sisters of Tranquility would be a really stupid move.
The Popes weren’t happy about it, but they didn’t get where they are by being fools. Not even the Ecclesiarchy in full regalia was about to get into a serious quarrel with the gentle monks of the monastery of St. Shriven-on-the-Moor. Take their visions seriously, the monks do.
The point is, any old lady who’d been able to handle all of that without—so far as anybody could tell—even working up a sweat, well, what would she need a strangler for? What I mean to say is, your average chokester’s employer is the type who can’t handle their own rough work. We really didn’t get much business from people who could make whole armies vanish.
I wasn’t keen on taking the job, myself. The Abbey was a fair ways off. Sure, and the Abbess Hildegard said she’d reimburse our travel expenses, but so what? While we were out of town, who knows what lucrative Greyboar-acceptable “ethically correct” choke might come up. Besides, promenading through the countryside sucks. Wafting down a river on a luxury barge is one thing; traipsing through a primeval forest is another story altogether.
Greyboar was of the same opinion, so I figured that was that. Until he mentioned the letter to the Cat over dinner that night.
The Cat had made one of her periodic reappearances early that morning. As soon as they heard, Jenny and Angela came over and invited us all to their house for a big dinner. With all the fancy trimmings. Then charged off with me in tow. They said they needed someone to carry all the provisions they were going to buy.
I was still complaining when we got back to their house. Partly from the labor—a lot of provisions—but mostly from responsible financial concerns. “This cost a lot of money,” I whined. (Oh, sure. Did you think I let them pay for it? A man loses his pride, he’s got nothing. Especially a little man.)
Jenny was on tiptoe, hauling one of the big pots down from its hook on the kitchen wall. “You’ve got money, Ignace,” she retorted. “Plenty enough to afford a modest little feast.”
“Sure do!” added Angela. “And we didn’t ask you to pay for it, anyway.” She was doing something with dough and a rolling pin over at the counter, flour up to her elbows. ” `A man loses his pride, ‘e’s got nothing,’ ” she mimicked, giggling.
Jenny slammed the pot onto the stove. “I’m amazed Greyboar doesn’t roll right off his bed, as much loot as you’ve got stashed under it.”
“Business is slow,” I whined.
Jenny’s hair had grown so long it hung down to her waist. She started doing that incredibly complicated and quick-graceful thing that women with long hair do when they coil it up out of the way that I love to watch when it’s Jenny doing it. Smiling like a cherub all the while.
“Bullshit,” she retorted. “Business is exclusive. As in: top drawer.”
“That’s right!” piped Angela. She’d finished whatever she’d been doing with the dough and was washing her arms. Then, snatching up a towel and starting to dry herself, she marched out of the kitchen. A moment or two later she was back, clutching a thick book in her hands.
I recognized it, and couldn’t stop myself from wincing.