Dread Brass Shadows

by Glen Cook

  I didn’t think about the questions I should’ve asked till after I heard the door close. But what the hell? I could get the answers from the Dead Man.

  10

  Dean came back from the front door as I headed across the hail. “She was lying, Mr. Garrett.”

  “She wasn’t telling the whole truth, that’s for sure.”

  “Not telling a word of it if you ask me.”

  “It shouldn’t matter. Let’s find out what old Smiley plucked out of the air between her ears.”

  Dean shivered I can’t figure it, After all this time he ought to be used to the Dead Man.

  I added the Ramada woman’s money to the pile under the Dead Man’s chair. I settled into my own, glanced around. Dean had been slacking again He gets the creeps in there, so he lets cleanup slide till I jump on him or do it myself. The bugs were ready to take over. “What did you think of my visitor?”

  Will you never outgrow that adolescent sense of humor?

  Crumbs. Now he was getting on me for what I was thinking “I hope not, Chuckles.” There. Damned for it, I might as well say it “Grownups are so stodgy.”

  As Dean observed, she was lying.

  “So what’s her real story?”

  I dare not hazard a guess.

  Oh-oh. This didn’t sound good

  I was unable to capture any but the most fleeting surface thoughts.

  Oh, my. What the hell? “I thought you could read anybody.” This was getting to be a bad habit. Was he getting near the end, slipping over the edge?

  Only simple minds.

  Ouch! “And you complain about my sense of humor? What’s it mean?”

  That she is no chambermaid. She bears close observation—not that way—though we have no real business mixing in here.I got the distinct impression he wanted to mix.

  Not in the manner you have in mind.

  “What’s wrong with mixing business with pleasure? She was . . .”

  Yes. She was. And what else?

  “Hey! She’s a client now. A paying client.”

  And it is quite obvious why. Amaze me sometime, Garrett. Think with your brain instead of your glands. Just once. Astonish your friends and confound your enemies.

  I considered sulking. I considered mentioning the fact that I hadn’t broken a sweat over Winger—though even that wouldn’t have been a definitive truth. Winger’s only distracting feature was her size. “Hell. You’re just being sour grapes because you can’t anymore.”

  Which was near enough the truth that he changed the subject. How do you propose finding the book she wants? With no more information than you cozened out of her? You are such a clever interrogator.

  “How was I to know you’d gone feeble?”

  You have to learn to carry yourself, Garrett. I cannot do it all for you. Rather than start a quarrel, I suggest you try to overtake Mr. Tharpe and engage him to watch the woman.

  “How about the book she wants? It has to be the book we heard about before. What about it?”

  Nothing about it. A book of shadows, a book of dreams, you tell me. Something mystical, presumably. But the concept is unfamiliar. Knowing what that book is might well illuminate everything else. She suggested a great many dwarves were associated with the woman she called the Serpent. That is unusual. Even unlikely, I would suspect. Perhaps you should visit the local enclave and see if anyone can elucidate. I believe the dwarf Gnorst, the son of Gnorst of Gnorst, is still canton praetor. Yes. By all means. Go see him. Invoke my name. He owes me a favor.

  The old bag of bones was getting going. He was more interested than I was. But he s a sucker for a puzzle.

  “Come on, Old Bones. Not even a dwarf gets stuck with a name like a hay-fever attack. Does he? And how can he owe you one? I’ve never seen any dwarves around here.”

  They are long-lived, Garrett. They have excellent memories and a delicate sense for the proprieties of balance.

  That was supposed to put me in my place. Water off a duck, man. Us short-lifers don’t have time to worry about gaffes.

  Once you visit the dwarves, you might enlist Mr. Dotes. If Mr. Tharpe learns nothing useful, and the Squirrel person likewise, you might begin researching the woman’s story, detail by detail. Heraldry and peerage experts should know this baron and his stronghold. Traders and travelers who visit the region might cast light on events there.

  “Go teach Grandma to suck eggs You’re on my turf now.”

  I am? I am talking legwork here, Garrett. Remember that facet of this business to which you are allergic?

  A base canard. The sour grapes of a guy who hasn’t gotten out of his chair for four hundred years. Though it is easier just to stir the pot and see what floats to the top. “Guess I’ll see if Dean will hang around. If he’ll stay late, I’ll head for Dwarf Fort.”

  I went to the kitchen. hoisted me a brew. Of course Dean would stay over. Now that things were happening I couldn’t run him off. Tinnie was one of his favorite people. He wanted to see somebody get hurt for hurting her “So hold the fort,” I told him. “His Nibs has me off to the realm of the short and surly.”

  “Don’t be out too late I’m making deep-dish apple cobbler. Better when it isn’t reheated.”

  Surprise, surprise. That old boy knows how to take my mind off my troubles. One more talent and I’d marry him.

  I trotted up to my special closet and dressed myself for the street, then headed out. Not for the first time I didn’t have the foggiest notion what the hell I was doing. Or maybe it was the first time and it just hadn’t ever stopped.

  11

  The Dead Man had suggested a stop, coming back, at the Joy House, owned and operated by one Morley Dotes, friend of mine, professional vegetarian, assassin, and elf-human breed. I gave it a think and decided to skip it. Morley is handy when the going gets rough, but he has his liabilities. Most of them are female. No sense bringing him in where he’d face so much temptation. Besides, not having him in meant the odds were better for me.

  The Joy House. Some dumb name for a restaurant with a menu fit only for livestock. How about the Manger, Morley? How about the Barn? Or the Stable? Though that kind of smacked of upscale chic.

  What people call Dwarf Fort or Dwarf House sits on four square blocks behind the levee in Child’s Landing. The Landing abuts the river north of the Bight, where the big water swings sharply southwest and the wharves and docks start and go on for miles, all the way to the wall. Legend says the Landing was settled when humans first came into the region. First there was a fort, then a village that grew because it lay near the confluence of three major rivers. Then there were more fortifications and a growth of industry during the Face Wars, when human insecurities compelled our ancestors to prove they could kick ass on the older races.

  The Face Wars were a long time ago. Things have come full circle. Now the Landing is occupied by nonhumans come to grab at the wealth floating around because of Karenta’s endless war with Venageta.

  I can always work up a case of indignation about the war and its spin-offs. One is, the nonhumans are picking our pockets. Our overlords are cheering them on. Someday they’ll be picking our bones.

  That’s not racist, either. I get along with everybody but ratmen. Our rulers, in their wisdom, in their infallible opportunism, made treaties with these other races that shield them from military service even if they’ve lived as Karentines for ten generations. They gobble the privileges and don’t pay the price. They’re getting fat making the weapons carried by youths who couldn’t be conscripted if the nonhumans weren’t there to replace them in the economy.

  If you’re human and male, you’ll do five years in service. Nowadays, with the Cantard in the hands of Glory Mooncalled and his mercenaries and native allies, they’re talking about making that six years. Meaning even fewer survivors coming home.

  I’m bitter. I admit it. I survived my five and made it home, but I was the first of my family to do so. And nobody thanked me for my trouble when I got back.


  Hell with it.

  Dwarf House covers four blocks. A north-south street cuts through the middle. A canal spur runs through east to west. Rumor says the blocks are connected by tunnels. Maybe. They’re connected by bridges four stories up. Make that four human stories. Dwarves are dwarves. There would be more floors.

  The buildings have no outside windows and few doors. Humans seldom get inside, I had no idea what to expect. All I knew was if they let me in and didn’t want me out, I was sunk. Not even my pal the King would come rescue me. Dwarf House enjoys virtual extraterritoriality.

  I looked the place over before I knocked. I didn’t like what I saw. I knocked anyway. Somebody has to do these things. Generally somebody too dim not to back off.

  I knocked again after a reasonable wait. They weren’t in any hurry in there.

  I knocked a third time.

  The door swung inward. “All right! All right! You don’t have to break it down. I heard you the first time.” The hairy runt in red and green was probably six hundred years old and had been assigned to the door because of his winning personality.

  “My name is Garrett. The Dead Man sent me to talk to Gnorst Gnorst.”

  “Impossible. Gnorst is a busy dwarf. He doesn’t have time to entertain every Tall One who wanders past. Go away.”

  I didn’t move except to insert a foot into the doorway. The dwarf scowled. I guess. He wasn’t much more than eyes inside a beard big enough to hide stork’s nests. “What do you want?”

  “Gnorst. He owes the Dead Man.”

  The dwarf sighed. What might have been a conciliatory smile stirred the brush on his face. He grunted and made noises that would be considered rude at the dinner table. “I’ll inform the Gnorst.” Bam! He slammed the door. I barely saved my foot. Then I snickered. These characters had to get a little more imaginative. I mean, Gnorst Gnorst, son of Gnorst, the Gnorst of Gnorst? Hell. I guess they don’t have much trouble remembering who’s related to who. If Gnorst lost his voice, he could answer most personal questions by blowing his nose.

  I bet it makes perfect sense to dwarves.

  The hair ball was back in five minutes. Probably record time for him. “Come in. Come in.” Either the Dead Man’s name was magic or they were short on chow for their pet rats. I hoped the character with the imaginative name was impressed with my credential. “Follow me, sir. Follow me. Mind your head, sir. There’ll be low ceilings.”

  The door dwarf did me the added courtesy of lighting a torch off a lamp that yielded a light so feeble it would have done me no good at all. He gave me a look that said this was first-class treatment, properly reserved for visiting royalty.

  Dwarf House inside was all gloom and smell, like tenements where families crowd in four to the flat.

  Only more so. Ventilation was nonexistent.

  We trudged up stairs. We went down stairs. I stooped a lot as we marched through workshops where dwarves by the platoon worked on as many projects as there were dwarves working The lighting was uniformly abysmal, but my guide’s torch added enough to reveal that these were all proud craftsmen. Each dwarf’s product was the best he could fashion. Which would make that item the best of its kind Dagger, shield, plate armor, clock, or clockwork toy, each was a work of art. Each was unique. Each artisan was a master.

  My lower back was gnawing at me before we were halfway where we were going. I breathed through my mouth because of the smell I hoped nobody took offense. The racket was incredible. Those dwarves banged and clanged and scraped and squeaked like crazy, all for the sake of maintaining an image as industrious little buggers. I bet they started loafing the second I was out of sight.

  12

  The dwarf with the silly name didn’t look silly. Mostly he looked hairy. I assumed a beard was an emblem of status. He was two beady black eyes peeking out of gray brush. I couldn’t tell what he was wearing behind all the foliage. He did have a standard-issue sort of dwarf’s hat perched on top, complete with pheasant tail feather.

  Gnorst of the many Gnorsts met me in a shaded garden on top of one of the buildings. Very stylized and arty, that garden, with white marble gravel paths, teensy trees, little wooden bridges over fish ponds. The works, all in a style usually associated with high elves.

  I rubbed the small of my back and gawked. Gnorst said, “An affectation of mine, Mr. Garrett. My tastes are very undwarfish. My worldly successes allow me to indulge my peculiarities.” This before the introductions and amenities.

  “It’s restful,” I said. “I’m surprised to see it atop a building.”

  My guide faded away. Another hairball brought refreshments. The goodies included beer. Maybe they’d heard of me. I took a long drink. “You all make beer like you do everything else.”

  It wasn’t that good but I had to be diplomatic. Gnorst was pleased. Maybe he’d had some hand in its brewing.

  Dwarves shun alcohol and drugs, so wouldn’t have any real standard by which to judge the product.

  “I wish I had time for a relaxed chat, Mr. Garrett. I’d love to catch up on the adventures of my old friend, your partner.”

  My partner?” Maybe he is but I don’t go around admitting it in public. I laughed. “I’ll forget you said that. I don’t want to give him ideas.”

  “To be sure. He’s stubborn at times. I’ll drop in someday. It’s been too long Meanwhile, indulge my impatience. I’m pressed”

  “Sure. I’m in a hurry myself.”

  “What brought you, then?”

  “The Dead Man’s idea, A friend of mine was knifed yesterday. The gang that did it were mostly dwarves.”

  Gnorst popped up. “Dwarves! Involved in a killing?”

  “Attempted killing. So far.” I explained

  “Strange. Very strange.” But he relaxed visibly, like maybe he’d concluded his own bunch couldn’t he responsible. “I don’t see how I can help you.”

  “The Dead Man hoped you could give me a line on those guys. The dwarf community is pretty tight.”

  “This one is. But there are dwarves who aren’t part of this enterprise. Still . . . The behavior isn’t to be countenanced. It aggravates prejudice. That’s bad for business. I’ll quiz my people. Someone may know those dwarves—though I hope not. A dwarf gone bad is a bad dwarf indeed.”

  That sounded like a proverb. I told him, “Thanks for your time. I didn’t think it would help. One more thing. You ever heard of something called a book of shadows? Or a book of dreams?”

  He jumped like somebody goosed him with a hot poker He stared at me a whole minute. I exaggerate not. Then he squeaked, “A book of dreams?”

  “A woman came to the house before I came over here. She looked a lot like my friend who got stabbed. I think she was the intended victim. She wanted to hire me. Gave me a long story about a witch called the Serpent and a book of dreams that got stolen from her and is supposed to be in TunFaire now.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Garrett “ Gnorst scuttled off, mumbled at the guy who’d brought the beer. He stomped back over. “I just canceled some appointments. You have more time.”

  “I ring a bell or something?”

  “A gong. A carillon. I guess you’re unfamiliar with early dwarf history.”

  “Everybody else’s, too. What’s up?”

  “You’ve recalled an ancient terror.”

  “Maybe you’d better explain.” Before I got dizzy.

  “The Book of Dreams, more often called the Book of Shadows, is infamous in dwarfish legend. It must be unimaginably ancient to you. It dates from before men walked the earth.”

  Yesterday’s breakfast is unimaginably ancient to me most of the time, but I didn’t say so. I didn’t want to seem shallower than I am. Wipe off that sneer.

  “In those days dwarfish sorcerers were quite powerful, Mr. Garrett. And some were quite dark. The most powerful and darkest was Nooney Krombach, who created the Book of Shadows.”

  Praise me, I kept a straight face. Nooney Krombach. I reminded myself that they probably find
our names just as quaint. “Nooney Krombach?”

  “Yes. Quite possibly fanciful, of course. Like so many saints in human mythologies. But he doesn’t have to have existed to have influenced his future.”

  “I understand.” I did, because just a few months ago I’d survived a case involving several of TunFaire’s religions. This city is cursed with a thousand cults.

  “Krombach’s legend has led thousands of would-be masters of the world to attempt to create their own Book of Shadows.”

  That was fine by me but didn’t make anything clearer. “What was it?”

  “A book of magic. One hundred sheets of brass hammered paper thin, bound in tooled mammoth leather, every page bearing a spell of immense potency. And every spell created and set down with our dwarfish passion for perfection.”

  I began to see why people were after this book. But not why they were after me. I didn’t have any grimoires lying around the house. Gnorst mistook my frown for puzzlement.

  “These spells are very specialized, Mr. Garrett. Each enchantment, one to the page, properly employed, will allow the book’s user to assume a different form and character. In other words, the book’s user is able to assume any of a hundred guises by turning to the proper page and reading aloud. He is able to become any of a hundred people—or whatever creature might be inscribed.”

  “Huh?” I wasn’t being dumb. But that was a big load. My imagination grabbed the idea and darted around. I gulped. “You saying this Serpent had the Book of Dreams and somebody stole it?”

  “ TheBook of Shadows was destroyed, at great cost to the ancients. The characters it contained were all wicked. If your visitor told the truth, the witch she mentioned was trying to create her own book of shadows. What could she have possibly offered them?”

  “Who?” I was having trouble keeping up.

  “Those dwarves. The ones you encountered. It isn’t possible to create a book of shadows without dwarfish craftsmen. But no sane dwarf would lend himself to an evil of that magnitude . . . But you don’t care about that.”