The Philosophical Strangler by Eric Flint

So Greyboar and the girls and I spent the rest of the day, and the evening, enjoying an excellent meal and many hours of musical entertainment. And I’ll say for the record that there are worse fates than being in a secluded Abbey with most of the world’s greatest composers having what lowlife musicians call a “jam session.”

* * *

The next morning, Hildegard summoned us into her office. After a day’s rest and a night’s sleep, she was looking quite a bit better. Although I noticed she was wearing a scarf around her neck, probably to hide the bruises.

As soon as we walked in, she greeted us with a big smile. So did the snarl on the rug.

I was so preoccupied with keeping an eye on the snarl that I didn’t even notice the size of the casket that Hildegard hauled up from the floor and plunked on her desk. Not until she opened it and my eye caught a glint of the world’s most splendid color. Gold.

All fretting thoughts on the subject of snarl smiles vanished, then. In fact, all thoughts of any kind vanished. I was awash in the bliss that mystics talk about, when they babble about pure emotion transcending the petty limits of apparent reality.

Of course, your mystics always shoot for what you might call the more ethereal emotions. But, me, I’ve always found that plain old everyday stuff works just fine. Greed, for instance.

To be sure, some feeble still-flickering portion of my intellect was probably fumbling around, trying to estimate the actual value contained in that casket. But I had no time for sordid arithmetic, at the moment. I was just awash in the transcendental experience of realizing:

We’re rich! We’re rich!

“As I promised,” Hildegard said, “an excellent bonus for your excellent work.”

Greyboar muttered something decorous, I believe. I tried to follow his example, but the words sort of got lost in the drool. Then Hildegard shoved the casket across the desk toward us and I, ah, advanced to take possession.

Greyboar claims I trampled the snarl on the way, but I think that’s nonsense. I mean, wouldn’t the beast have gobbled me or something? Greyboar claims the only reason it didn’t was because I don’t weigh enough to really disturb a dozing snarl, even stepping on its great hairy ugly flanks. In fact, he claims the snarl purred, as if my footsteps were like so many little petting strokes.

Could be, I dunno. I suppose things might have gotten stickier if I’d trampled the snarl on the way back, what with being weighted down with the casket. But I couldn’t lift the thing, anyway, so Greyboar had to come and do the crude muscle work. He claims he carefully avoided the snarl in the doing. I dunno. Maybe. It’s true that he doesn’t have any of my sense for the true worth of things.

* * *

The next three days or so are pretty vague in my memory.

Greyboar and the girls were gone most of the time, down in the salon with the composers listening to music. Me? Ha! Sure, and I love music. But a man has to have a clear sense of priorities. Art and entertainment come a long way second after the really important stuff. Counting your money being pretty much at the top of the list.

It was so strenuous. A lot of people don’t give much thought to the matter, you know, but a connosoor like myself understands that money-counting (when there’s enough money) is an art form all in itself. You always want to start with racking up the total, of course. But after that, the variety of styles is almost endless. Stack coins by size, then by content of actual precious metal. Arrange them in a lot of short stacks, a few tall ones. Then, of course, the whole world of truly creative work opens up as you stack and restack them in the multitude of wondrous shapes available to the intelligent mind in full flower. Castles, pyramids, bridges, you name it.

One of the happier times of my life, it was. Even though I don’t remember much of it because I was lost in such a state of artistic frenzy. But that’s the way creative work always is, I’m told.