The Philosophical Strangler by Eric Flint

The Sister looked at her like she was crazy. “Well, of course the Grump can play his own music beautifully!” she exclaimed. She opened the door and strode through.

Following her, we found ourselves in a very large room. There were maybe a dozen people seated on chairs toward the center of the room, in a semicircle around a grand piano. At the piano, playing, sat a short, pudgy man with a great beard.

“I’ll be damned,” I whispered to Greyboar. “It’s the Grump.” I recognized him, of course. Years back, he’d come into The Trough more than a few times, before he shook the dust of New Sfinctr off his feet for good.

“That’s not the least of it,” whispered back Greyboar. “Gramps is here too. So’s the Blockhead. And—I don’t believe it! Look! It’s the Big Banjo!”

Sure enough, it was the Big Banjo, sitting in a chair. His back was straight as a ramrod. He was watching the Grump play with that hawk-faced intensity which would make him stand out in any crowd even if you didn’t know who he was.

“The Fallen Woman’s with him,” whispered Olga. She almost sounded awestruck. “I’ve always wanted to meet her. But, you know, she hardly ever leaves their villa.”

Soon enough, the music ended. The Sister approached the group.

“Pardon me, Hildegard,” she said. “I hate to interrupt, but Greyboar’s here.”

“So soon?” came a voice clear as a chime. A figure arose.

I’d been so surprised to see the Big Banjo that I hadn’t really looked at any of the other occupants of the room. But now my attention was drawn completely to the woman who was advancing toward us, smiling broadly, her hands outstretched in a gesture of warm welcome.

Quite a striking woman she would have been, anyway, what with her beautiful white hair and a face that positively radiated intelligence. She wore a very nice outfit, too, much like the other Sisters but with a certain elegance of the cut that was quite noticeable.

But mainly, it was her size. She was at least seven and a half feet tall! I realized then that I hadn’t noticed her sitting down because I’d assumed she’d been standing.

She wasn’t built along the same lines as Greyboar—none of his obscene massiveness, you’ll understand—but she still seemed to dwarf him, stooping over and clasping him like he was her long-lost brother. And when she got to me—well!

The damned woman picked me up! Like I was some kind of toddler! There I was, held up in her huge hands, while she inspected me.

“And this must be Ignace! Why, he’s such a sweet-looking little cherub of a man! All those freckles! Doesn’t look at all like the evil imp Gwendolyn described.”

Right then, alarm bells started going off in my head. I knew it! I knew it! I knew there was something fishy about this job!

We’d been suckered!

Not fair!

Chapter 12.

The Trouble With Sisters

“Gwendolyn?” asked Greyboar, his jaw sagging. “My sister?”

The Abbess looked at him. “Of course, Gwendolyn. How else would I have gotten your name and address?” She frowned. “Surely you don’t think I keep a list of the world’s great chokesters in my study? After all! I am the Abbess of the Sisters of Tranquility.”

“Gwendolyn?” he repeated. “My sister?” His jaw was now down to his chest.

The Abbess’ frown grew deeper. “Oh, dear,” she said, “Gwendolyn told me you were a stupid jackass. But I just thought she was being harsh and unforgiving, like she usually is. I didn’t realize she meant you were actually retarded.”

Greyboar’s jaw snapped shut. He glowered.

“That dirty, rotten—” He stopped, but the glower didn’t.

“Oh, what a relief,” sighed the Abbess. “It would have been difficult, the job ahead, with a moron for a chokester.”

Time for the agent to take center stage. “And just exactly what is this job you—”

But she cut me off with a gesture. “Oh, not tonight! Tomorrow we’ll have plenty of time to discuss the job. Actually, we’ll need most of the day to get everything prepared. We really weren’t expecting you so soon. But no business tonight! Tonight is for music.”