Wicked Bronze Ambition by Glen Cook
“You just cannot do that sort of thing, Garrett. You have accepted responsibilities.”
I wound up to protest and argue.
She stepped all over me. “Go downstairs. Things need doing.”
Old Bones brushed me, mildly impatient.
“Huh?”
“That sorceress is here with the tracers for the swordsmith.”
“Huh?” Again, now with startled oomph! behind it. “Moonblight? I didn’t think she’d come within a mile of here ever again.”
“Himself says she is all business this time. Something happened on the Hill last night . . . Oh! You were there, too.”
Intuition, maybe subliminally fed by the Dead Man. “All that flash.”
“Apparently. He has not filled me in.”
Interesting.
Kolda’s herbs did what they could, but a low-grade headache persisted. I’ve had some experience with the hangover phenomenon. This day might not be filled with sunshine and joy. I started it with the traditional vow never to do anything as stupid again until the next time. I was too old for this crap.
And we have heard it all before. Please move along. Wear comfortable shoes.
He was trying to scare me.
There was a grand conspiracy afoot. Penny waited to play her role at the foot of the stair. She herded me toward Singe’s office, no stalling or side trips allowed. We met Dean coming the other way. He said he had delivered breakfast for me and a light repast for our guest. I glanced into my old office as I passed. Vicious Min lay splashed across a couple of old mattresses, on her back, totally disheveled, in a coma induced by the Dead Man. My attempt to stop for a look failed. Penny and Singe both pushed me on.
“But what have we learned from her?” I demanded manfully. Though Singe claims I whined.
Very little. Her mind operates differently. She deals with situations by translating from our ways of thinking to hers. Her rest state, or ground state, is wholly alien. I am trying to work my way into her mind by tracing one memory at a time.
“Oh, come on!” My exasperation did not target him so much as the perversity of the universe where I was stranded. If reality was a solipsist bubble, the chief engineer needed his butt kicked till he got his mind right.
She may be a demonic immigrant after all.
An immigrant. Right.
53
Dean had not gone out of his way to provide a gourmet breakfast. He had whipped up something good for what ailed me—assuming I was clever enough and man enough to keep all that biscuitry in heavy sausage gravy down.
Moonblight said, “Good morning, Mr. Garrett,” far too cheerfully.
Nobody should be bright and cheerful that long before the crack of noon.
I tried to stifle the acid surging in my gut. “Good morning, ma’am.”
Which didn’t get so much as an eyebrow twitch. She was here on business. She was dressed for business. Sensible shoes and clothing suitable for travel by horseback or hiking in the woods, all top quality, genuinely meant for rough usage.
I tied in to breakfast with more enthusiasm than seemed reasonable considering the state of my hangover, all the while wondering what the old gal had in mind.
She told me what. “I will be joining you today, Mr. Garrett, to make sure nothing happens to you.”
Wow. Other than Strafa by circumstance, I never had a heavy-hitter Hill type for a bodyguard. Cool. Sort of. But scary.
Singe poured me more thick black Kolda tea, tapped the rim of my mug to let me know that I had no choice.
Everybody wants to be my mom. Even Dean.
There was extra spice in the sausage gravy. Another Kolda contribution, no doubt.
Penny brought a beaker of chilled water. Always smart to drink lots of water after a night spent processing proof that the gods do love us.
I grunted a response to Moonblight. If Old Bones hadn’t run her off, he must think her company wasn’t a bad idea. And my ego’s defenses were down enough that I could entertain the notion that it might be useful not to work today’s mean streets alone.
I faced Singe. “I take it Morley . . .”
“As occasionally happens with your acquaintances, life got in the way of his babysitting obligation.”
Hurtful. “Babysitting” was not her exact phrase. It was what she meant, maybe hinting that my friends could be feeling a little overutilized.
Which could be a problem in need of address. My friends do have lives of their own.
It is possible that the Operators have used hidden influence to generate distractions, too.
“Those nut jobs could be that well informed and organized?”
They could be. Crazy does not mean stupid. It does not imply an absence of genius tactically, strategically, or organizationally. However, it is far from certain that they are manipulating your environment.
“I’m not sure that helps.”
We will have a more certain perspective by the end of the day.
Which I took to mean that, yet again, I’d be out drawing fire while folks like Winger and Saucerhead, John Stretch, and others would slide around in the dank and dark looking to sneak up on the truth.
I swilled a final bitter gulp. I understood. There was a plan afoot. A scheme. Childe Garrett would appear to be the main operator. Maybe Old Bones had cooked something up with Tara Chayne so she would go dancing between the raindrops, playing chicken with the lightning, with me.
She observed, “You’re moving faster and showing better color. Feeling better, then?”
I was. Some. “I can manage the random linear thought. Smiles are a ways off, though.”
“Smiles? We don’t need no stinking smiles.”
Excellent. Images flooded my noggin, beginning with my itinerary, a jagged line that started at the house and zagged mostly eastward, toward the river, before it plunged down south to the Dream Quarter. A visit to the Al-Khar is not necessary but could be useful on the off chance someone there has learned something they are willing to share.
Nothing useful had come of Helenia’s visit. The presence of the boyfriend had been stifling. Not that she had had anything useful tucked inside her vacuous head. Nothing Old Bones cared to share, anyway. I’m sure he learned something useful about the secret workings of the Guard. Meanwhile, Helenia and the boyfriend abused my hospitality by about two gallons’ worth.
His Nibs took a cavalier attitude toward the expense.
First job would be a run to Trivias Smith’s place with the tracers—and a Moonblight eager to meet him. Then we would go to the Dream Quarter to find a man with a wen. If we located him, somebody might deliver a robust midnight invitation to a conversation with my partner. Relway would disapprove, being a born-again authoritarian, but he would get over it—fast if there were laurels to be won.
Next stop would be Playmate to see how he was holding up. Too, Old Bones hoped that Playmate had done better wrangling Little Moo than he had Brownie and her crew. He wanted to meet the girl.
He had some ideas that he wasn’t ready to share. He doesn’t like putting something out there that he might later have to admit was incorrect.
If all goes well, we may have some interesting developments by this evening. He then reminded me that, given the chance, he wanted direct interviews with the people we’d see today.
“Good luck with that,” I told me under my breath. I didn’t see anybody but Playmate volunteering.
Lady Tara Chayne observed, “You appear to be stalling.” When I didn’t respond fast enough to suit, she added, “I’m getting no younger. And Shadowslinger is moving toward recovery.”
She would come back, wouldn’t she?
Moonblight made a statement of objective truth sound totally sinister. Had my partner contributed a touch of emotional harassment?
No.
She had delivered that dose of dread all by her own self.
She did come from way up high on the Hill.
54
Brownie and two of her gal p
Number Two shared my bleak attitude.
I blurted, “What the hell?” I stared. I shuddered. I started to sweat. I turned back, but the door had shut behind me. My hands trembled. My knees knocked. “What in the hell?”
There were horses tied up at a street-side hitching post just downhill from my steps. Intuition shrieked that they were there because of me. I am cursed with a powerful instinct when it comes to the darker blessings. Just seeing those monsters guaranteed that all things dreadful were about to come down.
My reaction was maybe a wee bit melodramatic. The fact remained: I should have vandalized that post as soon as the neighborhood association put it in. Hitching posts attract horses the way horse apples attract flies. Right now my stretch of Macunado was suffering a surfeit of all three.
Moonblight announced, “We will cover more ground faster if we ride.” My vote having no real weight. She strode manfully to the larger beast, a gelding whose ears brushed the bellies of the clouds. She checked its tack, swung aboard with the ease and grace of a feline cavalier.
The lesser beast was a mare, old, saggy, not much bigger than a kiddy-ride pony. She gave me a sideways look three seconds long, all sad and resigned, smoothly masking the evil in her heart. I psyched myself up to commence to fix to begin working my way closer.
“Will you stop dawdling? You could get annoying if you insist on being a drama queen.”
Oh boy. Struck to the macho heart.
Tara Chayne’s stallion pranced and caracoled impatiently.
All right. Her gelding shuffled sideways a little while my ego shrank till it could slither under the bellies of night crawlers. I stepped in, checked cinches, bridle, and stirrups like I knew what I was doing. The saddle did not fall off while I levered myself aboard and, age of wonders, settled facing the same direction as the nag. My toes did not quite drag the cobblestones.
“That isn’t so terrible, is it?”
Curses. She knew that I suffered a slight neurosis concerning horses.
Yes. It was terrible. The view from way up there was . . .
I bit down on that. I needed no aggravation from anyone who suspected my secret foibles.
The mare stepped out, sadly trudging along beside the sorceress and her beast, one step back like a good Venageti wife. Brownie and the gang, no more enthusiastic about horses than I was, moved out with us, in synch with the monsters despite being ill at ease. Number Two and another roamed ahead, scouting. Brownie assumed her standard station a foot outside the range of any surprise kick. The remaining mutt fell back as a one-dog rearguard.
I clutched saddle and reins and awaited the dark moment when my steed commenced her mischief.
It is gospel absolute. Sometimes “they” really are out to get you!
The mare might be working for the people who had been out to get me the past few days.
I worked on my nerves, using relaxation techniques learned back when I was a national hero in training. I reserved a fraction of my attention for taking advantage of my new high vantage point.
TunFaire’s streets teem by day when, as this morning, rain is only a threat, though come nighttime, some areas turn into deserts. By day it can be easy to follow someone through all the busy, and more so if they rise above the press on horseback. A professional eye, however, can discover followers. They will be the frequently seen people impatient with folks who impede their parallel progress.
It helps to be operating with clever dogs, too. They notice things when you don’t if you’re preoccupied with feeling sorry for yourself.
Hangovers and horses. Could it get any worse?
Of course it could.
“Lady Tara Chayne, we’re being followed. And not by guardian angels.”
“Tara Chayne will do. Titles get cumbersome.”
I grunted.
“I’m not surprised. Your partner warned me that we might be stalked. He sensed watchers who weren’t close enough to read. Are they friends or enemies? Enemies might be more fun. Guardians? I see a lot of rat people.” Her tone suggested that she found being of interest to bad people particularly flattering.
“I don’t know. You’re right about the rat men. I don’t recognize them, though. They’re grays. John Stretch would use ones I know. And his own kind.” I didn’t recognize any of the humans, either.
The followers weren’t together and seemed unaware of one another.
Me. Me. I wasn’t alone. Moonblight had people interested in what she was doing, too. We might each have our own stalkers.
Hell, for that matter somebody could be watching those weird dogs. Or they might be agents dedicated to exposing equine treason.
I had to admit that equine treason was a stretch, even in an unlimited universe.
Moonblight shifted course next intersection.
She had been hot to get those tracers to Trivias Smith. But, more than I, she didn’t want the transaction witnessed. Why mark the swords if the creeps who took delivery had reason to be suspicious?
My steed stomped on in the lee of the gelding, resolutely indifferent, just getting through another day. I wondered if she wasn’t blind and navigating by sound and stench.
Tara Chayne’s beast definitely had a horsy pong.
55
Moonblight headed for the Al-Khar, to that same entrance I’d used before. We found the watch post womaned by the usual greeter. Helenia looked “rode hard and put away wet.” I couldn’t help saying, “I hope you had half as much fun as it looks like.”
“I’m hoping with you. But I’m not holding out much. I don’t remember much after you turned up. I woke up in my own bed, alone, and don’t remember how I got there. I don’t know what happened to Merry. He didn’t show up for work. Why are you here?”
“Barnacles?”
“Huh?”
Tara Chayne watched and listened and didn’t say anything. Odd. Her mouth had run nonstop till now. I told He – lenia about the folks slowing us down without mentioning our destination. I said I thought that the Guard might be interested in some of them. I was still explaining when Target and half a dozen heavyweights stopped to gather relevant points before charging out into the weather. How had Helenia summoned them? A capability worth keeping in mind. And why, before she heard my full tale of woe? Because she knew Moonblight was accustomed to premium service?
That I doubted.
This was Relway ground.
The devil himself turned up. I had to go back over the high points. Meanwhile, Target and his playmates exfiltrated to the street.
I was wrapping my sad tale when the prisoners arrived, three men and a woman. Target announced, “The rat men scattered like rats, boss,” ever so proud of his wit. “Just being close to our place had them spooked.”
I reminded Relway, “They were grays. Not John Stretch’s people.”
The little thug’s brushy eyebrows leapt up. “Yes?”
He assumed he was about to hear a confession.
“I need somebody to run a message to Pular Singe.” That smelled like a way around an admission of trafficking with undesirables.
“Certainly. Target, see to that. Helenia, give Mr. Garrett what he needs to write his note.” He struggled with a self-satisfied smirk. “And you two.” He wheeled on the captives, isolated a man and the woman. “I thought I made myself clear yesterday.”
At which point I penetrated Preston Womble’s excellent disguise. The woman, then, must be his habitual associate, Elona Muriat. She was tricked out as a homeless immigrant. I could get no fix on the real her inside the rags. She wouldn’t stand out on a busy street.
How come she hadn’t lived up to her reputation for being elusive?
Which wakened a curiosity as to how people were tracking me so easily.
So. Pals Womble and Muriat had been tagged, without noticing it, while they were in custody before. I had been tagged, too, somehow, probably more than once, since Strafa
Had that little blonde gotten close enough? No. Little Moo? She’d been all over me twice, but I had Shadowslinger’s guarantee that she wasn’t part of the tournament mess. I checked the dogs, all staying close and low-key. I wouldn’t be able to blame anything on Brownie, either.
When or how didn’t matter. Neutralization would be good enough.
Helenia showed me where I could scribble a note to Singe, which I did assuming that Target would sneak a peek. I stated the facts. Unknown rat men were following me. They were grays who did not seem friendly.
John Stretch would be interested. The sneakers weren’t his people. That meant that someone out there dared risk his wrath.
John Stretch hadn’t been challenged since he became top rat. Rat people liked his ways.
Moonblight went on not saying much but stared hard at Relway. Her self-satisfied smile assured everyone that the Director was an open book. Relway himself showed discomfort, so even he could be intimidated by Hill folk who were there to look him in the eye.
He took it out on Womble and Muriat, who had made bail by agreeing to sneak for the Unpublished Committee.
Tara Chayne smirked at Relway’s back.
I folded my message and handed it to Target, no seal. No point making the Guard’s specialists bust their butts to make it look like it hadn’t been opened. Target understood. So did the Director. There would be no rowdy secrets hidden in there.
Hell, knowing that, there was no point to looking.
But he would, just to make sure that I wasn’t counting on him not to because it wasn’t worth the trouble.
Thinking so much makes my brain swell up and the backs of my eyes hurt.
Relway asked, “Want a couple of my men along while you wander?” not being the least thoughtful except toward his own people. They wouldn’t have to work as hard if they could just tag along.
Preston and Elona hadn’t been freelancing. They had made the mistake of letting themselves be noticed.
“Not necessary,” Tara Chayne said, lapsing fully into Moonblight mode. “Show us an exit point away from where we entered.”