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

"You're only doing this philosophy nonsense because of Gwendolyn," I grumbled.
Of course, that made him furious. This is not, by the way, a stunt I recommend for the amateurтАФ
infuriating Greyboar, that is. But I'm the world's expert on the subject, and I know exactly when I can
get away with it.
His jaws clamped shut, his face turned red, he bestowed a ferocious glare on me.
"What's my sister got to do with it?" he demanded.
I glared right back at him.
"It's obvious! You never gave a second thoughtтАФyou never gave a first thought!тАФto this
philosophy crap until Gwendolyn said you had the philosophy of a weasel."
He looked away from me, his face like a stone. I felt bad, then. He was such a formidable monster,
that I forgot sometimes he had feelings just like other people. And before their fight, he and his sister
had been very close.
Still, it shut him up. The rest of the ride into the Flankn took place in a cold silence. Uncomfortable,
yes, but it was a damned sight better than having to listen to him prattling on about epistemology and
ontology and whatnot.
The cabbie dropped us off in front of our lodgings. We had some small rooms on the top floor of a
typical Flankn flophouse. I paid the cabbie and we headed for the door.
Just as we started up the steps to the landing, a voice sounded behind us.
"Hold there, sirrahs!"
We turned and beheld a bizarre sight, even for the Flankn. A small man stood before us, clad in the
most ridiculous costume: billowing green cloak, baggy yellow pants tied up at the ankles, tasseled
slippers curling up at the toes, his head bound in a bright red strip of cloth. A "turban," it's called.
"Who're you?" I demanded.
The fellow glanced about. "Please, lower your voice! My business is confidential."
"Confidential, is it?" boomed Greyboar. "Well, out with it!"
The man hissed his agitation. "Quietly, please! It is not to be discussed on the public
thoroughfares!" He cupped his ear.
Greyboar snorted. "It's as good a place as any. There's none to listen but the urchins of the street,
who're loyal to their own." The strangler gazed benignly over the refuse, debris and tottering tenements
that encompassed a typical street of the Flankn. His eyes fell upon a ne'er-do-well lounging against a
wall some steps beyond. "And the occasional idler, of course." Greyboar cracked his knuckles; it
sounded like a coal mine caving in. The layabout found urgent business elsewhere.
"Nevertheless," continued the turbaned one, "I must insist on privacy. I represent a most important
individual, who demands the utmost discretion."
Left to his own, Greyboar would have quitted the fellow with no further ado. But that's why he
needed an agent.
"Important individual, you say? No doubt he's prepared to pay handsomely for our services?" I
spoke softly, since there was no reason to aggravate a potential client. Strangler's customers were
always a twitchy lot.
"He can be quite generous. But come, let us arrange a meeting elsewhere."
"Done!" I said, cutting Greyboar off. "In three hours, in the back room of the Lucky Lady. Know
where it is?"
"I shall find it. Until then."
"It'll be twenty quid for the meetingтАФwhether or not we take the job." For a moment, I thought he
would protest. But he thought better of it, and scurried around the corner.
***
And that's how the whole thing started. It was bad enough when Greyboar was wasting his time
(and my patience) searching for a philosophy of life. But now that he's found one, he's impossible. If I'd
known in advance what was going to happen, I wouldn't have touched the job for all the gold in Ozar.
But there it isтАФI was an agent, not a fortune-teller. And even though we were flush at the moment, I