The Philosophical Strangler by Eric Flint

I was wrong. He interrupted the Abbess halfway through the introduction.

“I am already acquainted with the gentlemen, Hildegard,” he said. “In point of fact, I am deeply in their debt. These two were among the stalwarts who defended me at The Sign of the Trough upon that occasion when the Ecclesiarchs’ lackeys set upon me in the streets of New Sfinctr. Outraged, they were, at the implications of my latest opera. Fortunately, ’twas close to the Flankn, so I was able to effect my escape. Even so, it would have been sticky had it not been for the proper Trough-men.”

“Wasn’t just us,” rumbled Greyboar modestly. “Whole Flankn turned out, once the word spread. Gave the bootlickers quite the drubbing, we did.” Greyboar actually blushed a little. “Nothing really, for the national hero of Grotum.”

About the only thing that would arouse Greyboar’s very, very, very faint tinge of pan-Groutchery was the Big Banjo’s music. The chorus, sure, like everybody else, but he actually knew most of the other operas, too. Fortunately, he didn’t sing them.

The Big Banjo studied Greyboar intently. “Gwendolyn’s brother, are you not?”

Mutely, Greyboar nodded. The Big Banjo cocked his head a bit. “You wouldn’t, by any chance, have any of your sister’s vocal talent?”

I choked. Greyboar grinned. The Big Banjo sighed.

“Pity,” he mused. “I’ve written the most splendid opera especially for her voice. She sang a few arias from it, when she and that marvelous Benvenuti fellow arrived in the Mutt some time ago. Months and months, it’s been now.”

He shook his head ruefully. “But—you know Gwendolyn! She spurned all my pleas. Said she’d only return to singing after the revolution triumphed.”

Greyboar wasn’t grinning anymore. I looked down at the parquet floor. Scowling fiercely, I imagine. Of all my memories of Gwendolyn, her voice probably hit the sorest spot.

Especially when she sang. No woman in the world had a voice like Gwendolyn’s. Sure as hell not when she was cutting loose with it. A contralto profundo, you could call it—and strong enough to shake whole buildings.

When we were kids, we always figured she’d wind up in the opera house. That was our dream, actually. I’d be her manager and Greyboar’d be her bodyguard. Then—

Sigh. Then one of the pogroms hit. A family of dwarves scurried into our ramshackle little house, begging for mercy and shelter. There was a small mob pounding on their heels, led by a handful of monks.

Greyboar and I hesitated, but Gwendolyn was out the door with her cleaver before the dwarves got more than two sentences out. Sixteen years old, she was then, but she’d already reached her full size. The monk at the head of the mob got his head split before he screeched two words out. “Split,” as in pumpkin.

Then the rest of the mob started swarming Gwendolyn, and the issue of hesitation was a moot point. By the time it was all over, what was left of the mob was in what they call “full retreat.” Between them, Greyboar and Gwendolyn must have mangled a good dozen, including all four of the monks. I did for a couple of the pogromists myself. Small as I was, even at that age I knew how to use a knife in close quarters better than just about anybody except maybe your best muggers.

Sigh. That’s when all our plans went right off the cliff. Because Gwendolyn wasn’t satisfied with just rescuing the dwarves. She insisted on escorting them to the nearest refuge, and before you knew it she was involved with the Underground Railroad herself, and before she knew it she’d joined up with the revolution and The Roach, and before you knew it—

Sigh.

Fortunately, an interruption arrived to break the mood of the moment.

“The heart of the Flankn, is The Trough,” came a new voice. It was the Grump, extending his hand.

“I am also acquainted with the gentlemen,” he said, “an acquaintance I shall enjoy renewing. It’s the one thing I still regret about leaving my hometown. Best ale in the world, The Trough’s.”

That lightened things up quite a bit, talking about ale instead of Gwendolyn. And, as it turned out, it really was a great evening once we got over our shyness at being in such august company.