"Eric Flint - The Philosophical Strangler" - читать интересную книгу автора (Flint Eric)

His round face was very flushed, which was not surprising, given that Greyboar's hands were buried in
the rolls of fat adorning the royal neck.
"To the contrary," replied Greyboar, "philosophy is my life's passion."
"Indeed!" gasped the King. "It seems . . . an odd . . . avo . . . cation . . . for an as . . . sassin."
"Why? It seems to me quite appropriate. After all, my trade brings me in close proximity to the
basic metaphysical questionsтАФpain, suffering, torment, death, and the like. A most fertile field for
ethical ponderations."
"I had . . . not . . . con . . . sidered . . ." The King's face was now bright purple. "But . . . I . . . ex . . .
pire."
"Oh. Excuse me." Greyboar released the royal gullet. "Professional reflexes, I'm afraid."
"Quite so," agreed the King. His Royal Rotundness managed to sit up, coughing and gagging and
massaging his throat.
Well, you can imagine my state of mind! By now I was hopping about in a rage. "Greyboar! Will
you cease this madness and get on with the job?"
The next moment I was peering up Greyboar's massive hook of a nose, his beady black eyes visible
at a distance. So does the mouse examine the eagle's beak just before lunch.
"You will annoy me," he predicted.
"Never," I disclaimed.
"That is not true. You have annoyed me before, on several occasions."
Prudence be damned, I'm not the patient type. I was hopping about again. I fear my voice was
shrill.
"Yes, and it's always the same thing! Will you please stick to business? Save the philosophy for
later!"
"I cannot discuss metaphysics with a dead man." He turned to the King. "Is this not so?"
"Indeed," concurred His Majesty. "Although the transcendentalists would have it otherwise."
Greyboar's fingers twitched.
"Not my school," added the King hastily.
 I saw my chance, while they were distracted. I drew my dagger from my boot and sprang for the
royal throat.
I know, I know, it was stupid. But the aggravation of it all! Of course, Greyboar snatched me in
midair.
"As I foretold, you have annoyed me." Moments later, my arms and legs were tied up in knots.
Square knots, to boot. I hate square knotsтАФthey're not natural to the human anatomy.
"Last time you tied me in a granny," I complained.
"Last time you got loose."
He turned back to the King. "And now, Your Highness, be plain and to the point. What is this
philosophic endeavor of which you spoke?"
"I have discovered the true philosophy, the correct metaphysical basis upon which to construct the
principles of human conduct. Even when you entered, was I perfecting my discipline."
"Liar!" I shouted. "You were lazing about, eating a fig!"
Greyboar glared at me and I shut up. Tongue knots are the worst.
The King gazed at me reproachfully. "You misinterpret these trifles," he said, waving a vague hand
at his surroundings.
Trifles! His silk robe alone was worth enough to feed all the paupers of New Sfinctr for a year. And
New Sfinctr has a lot of paupers.
The King got that long-suffering look in his face. You know, the one rich people get when they talk
about the triviality of wealth in the scheme of things.
"These small luxuries are but the material aids to my philosophy," he said, "necessary, I regret to
say, solely because I have not yet sufficiently advanced in my discipline to dispense with them. I am
only, as yet, an accomplished Languid. I am on the verge, howeverтАФI am convinced of it!тАФof