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

"It's Greyboar and his shill!" squealed the porkers.
"I resent that!" I cried, finally tongue-loose. (I'm good at half hitches.) "I'm a bona fide agent!" But
it's hard to pull off dignified reproof when you're being carried like a cabbage. I got an upside-down
view of the sorcerer as we made our way through the madding crowd. He was still rooted to the spot,
paralyzed by the Void.
"тАФfor if what is were many it must be infinitely small, because the units of which it is composed
must be indivisible and therefore without magnitude; yet, it must also be infinitely great, because each
of its parts must have another before it from which it is separated and this must be likewiseтАФ"
Magrit, there's a proper witch. Mind you, if I'd known what the potion was, I'd never have used it.
I'm not what you'd call soft-hearted, but that doesn't make me a bloody sadist.
 Once we got into the corridor, it was easy going. Porkers all over the place, of course, and the
Hospice's staff and filthy-rich clientele ogling and staring, all agog and atwitter, but give Greyboar
some finger room and it took a small army to pull him down.
Truth to tell, it wasn't long before we were out on the street, and from there into the sanctuary of the
Flankn, with its maze of alleys, byways, tenements, cellars, attics, and all the other accouterments of
the Thieves' Quarter. On our way, I gave Greyboar a good talking to, you can be sure of it, but I doubt
he heard a word I said. His mind, plain to see, was elsewhere.
Eventually, I ran out of breath, and besides, we'd arrived at one of our hideouts. "All right," I
concluded sourly, "untie me and let's split up. Hide yourself somewhere and don't move aroundтАФ
you're too conspicuous. I'll make the rendezvous with Rashkuta and collect the rest of our fee. Meet me
in the attic over old Fyqulf's place the day after tomorrow. At night, mind you, if you move around
during the daylight, you'll get spotted for sure."
***
Two days later, I was sprawled on the attic floor counting our money. Things were coming up
roses. I'd expected some haggling over the balance owed, but nary a peep. I suspect, after viewing the
carnage in the Hospice, that His Acneship gave up any thought of stiffing us.
It was by far the biggest fee we'd ever collected, and I was feeling quite pleased with the world.
"Lucre," I gloated, "abundance, riches, affluence, pelf, the fleshpots! the cornucopia! the full
measure!тАФand then some! O wallow, wallow, wallow, wallow, wallow, wallowтАФ" I'm afraid I got
quite carried away. I didn't even notice Greyboar come in until he tapped me on the shoulder.
"Snap out of it," he grumbled. "It's only money." Imagine my indignation. But it was no use.
Greyboar slouched against the wall, gazing at his hands.
"Without my guru to lead the way, the road will be long and hard."
"Ha! With what we've got here you can slobber around in all the extravagance you need to
achieveтАФwhat'd the old geezer call it?тАФsloth, wasn't it?" I giggled; Greyboar glared. "No, no, that's
not quite right! LanguorтАФof course, that's the word!"
"I fear not," said Greyboar. "The hunt's up all over the city. The whole army's been turned out. The
Flankn's crawling with informers and stool pigeons. We'll need every copper we've got just to bribe the
porkers and get out of Sfinctria. Starvation rations, we'll be on, until you scrounge up some work. Even
that'll be hard, being in a different city and all."
I laughed, gay abandon. "Is that what's troubling you? Fie on it! D'you think I hadn't figured this all
out before I took on the job? Sure, for the moment there's a little heat. Looks bad, prominent tourist
getting throttled. But what does the Queen of Sfinctria care, when all is said and done? Unless there's
pressure from the SundjhabтАФzilch, that's what Belladonna cares! And the PrinceтАФremember him, he's
our client?тАФhe's the new King of the Sundjhab now. He'll cool things down right quick."
"I fear not." He scowled. "It's not the loss of the money that bothers me, it's the dislocationтАФthe
interruption of my habits, the distractions. It'll make it difficult to concentrate on my Languor."
"You're mad! The main thing the littleтАФpardon, His Puissant PupnessтАФwants is for the hubbub to
die down. After all, if we're caught, how's he to know we wouldn't sing like birds? No, no, Greyboar,
take my word for itтАФthe one thing you can be sure His Pimple will be doing is to move heaven and