Wicked Bronze Ambition

by Glen Cook

  “You saw who did it?”

  “No. Strafa was airborne but falling. The big woman was on her knees, cursing, holding her chest and bleeding. We’ll get into all that once Mother gets here. Strafa was still alive then. She begged me to tell you how much she loved you. She tried to guess who did it. Then she stopped breathing and her heart stopped. I couldn’t get anything started again. I don’t have the power . . .” He stopped talking, took deep breaths, forced himself to become calm.

  He did have that Algarda talent, an ability to manage emotion. To go cold as death when calm and calculation were needed.

  He exhaled. “That one was still conscious. She tried to talk. She called herself Vicious Min. She looks mixed-breed, maybe groll, but I don’t think she’s from this world.”

  “So that ridiculous tournament thing hasn’t even started and somebody jumped somebody else.”

  Barate nodded. “Yes. I don’t think that breaks the rules. I don’t think you can cheat, the way Mother explains it. But this would come close. The selection of participants has only just begun and the contest is down a probable Champion, maybe has a Dread Companion dying, and has you, if you’re the Mortal Companion, potentially crippled by grief. That has to be an encouraging start for somebody.”

  I tried channeling the young Garrett who crept through snake-filled, croc-infested swamps to find strangers to murder in nightmares gone by. That Garrett was always scared but never out of control. He got on with getting on.

  Once a Marine . . .

  17

  Shadowslinger showed up while I was dealing with the notion that I had been tagged to be Strafa’s sidekick by the Operators. Her Mortal Companion, formally.

  There was a lot of formality in this murder game.

  The old sorceress arrived in such a dark mood that those who were not part of the family began clearing off as they found plausible excuses. Her reputation was kingdomwide.

  The red tops faded fastest, including Target, who seemed content to hand me over despite the charge the Director had laid on him. Preston Womble disappeared even earlier, never being missed till I realized that I hadn’t seen him since I’d spotted him leaning over Vicious Min like he meant to kiss her good-bye.

  Dr. Ted was among the last to go. He told Barate, “I did what I could, which wasn’t much. That woman may be something supernatural. You’ll likely have better luck having your own people work on her.”

  His meaning got through. He meant people like Shadowslinger, who went into seclusion as soon as she arrived. Or Bonegrinder, who had come with her. Or Tara Chayne Machtkess. I had no idea where she fit or what dark skills she mastered. Strafa hadn’t explained and it hadn’t occurred to me to ask.

  Dr. Ted’s parting words let me know that, though he lived on the Hill, he wasn’t part of what made the Hill what it was. He was just a physician. Probably one of the best since he served such a select clientele, but not a man tapped into the darkness himself.

  Nor was Barate. He had been skipped by the family knack. I don’t know why. Maybe he had picked the wrong father. Maybe the knack skipped every other generation. Kevans was short on mystical skills, too.

  Once the outsiders thinned out, Shadowslinger reappeared long enough to summon the rest of us into the room Strafa called a library. There weren’t many books there, actually, though they seemed plentiful to me. Singe would go gaga over the ones dealing with economics.

  I have to admit, Strafa’s future husband found books mildly threatening, though he would read one occasionally.

  The dread sorceress was no longer content to sit, bask in fireplace warmth, and let her son do the talking. “I have made the funeral arrangements,” she announced, making it clear why she preferred not to speak for herself. She had a pipey little-girl voice that was completely unintimidating. Put her behind a screen, you’d think a cute eight-year-old was back there chirping. “You will be there. You.” She thrust a long, fat, wrinkled, dark, dry, and crooked finger at me.

  “Ma’am? Yes, ma’am.”

  My response amused Tara Chayne and Richt Hauser. They figured I’d gone chicken because I didn’t have Strafa to run interference.

  There was some truth to that, though less than they thought.

  “Your vows were not legally finalized. However, this family will proceed on the basis that they were in place in practice. Arrangements are being made to complete the legal formalities. You are the husband of Furious Tide of Light now, in fact as well as prospect.” Her ritualistic tone balanced the baby voice. In fact, it felt like she was casting a spell.

  She took time to look for someone who wanted to argue. Kevans looked sour but disinclined to object in words.

  Bonegrinder and the Machtkess woman looked puzzled. Barate’s pal Kyoga, silent and nearly invisible today, didn’t understand at all.

  Shadowslinger said, “This could have significant legal implications someday.” She looked me in the eye. “You and I will discuss that later, after the funeral and our war with the people who made this happen.”

  Little-girl voice or no, anyone anywhere with guilty knowledge had to feel Death’s cool breath on the backs of their necks.

  Shadowslinger had one of the darkest reputations on the Hill. Today she made it sound like that reputation was understated and was now headed toward a darkness deeper than any visited before.

  She kept talking to me. “We aren’t going to do anything obvious. You will begin the hunt after the funeral. You will not be subtle, as we discussed yesterday.”

  We did? When? I didn’t remember that. Maybe my knack for getting distracted was betraying me. Or maybe Strafa was supposed to clue me in and never got around to it.

  I needed to find out what Shadowslinger really expected.

  She told me, “You will find out who murdered your wife.”

  All right. “Yes. No doubt about that. I’ll spend the rest of my life on that if that’s what it takes.”

  “Good. But don’t act on it before we have a chance to talk it over. Once you do find out who is responsible, that is. Nothing. Understand?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “You’re a good man. Much too good to have what will happen weighing on your conscience afterward.”

  I opened my mouth to protest. I couldn’t imagine anything that awful. Not at that moment, in the emotional state that I occupied.

  She gave me no chance to butt in. She never would. She was that kind of matriarch. In her own mind she was the soul and will of Family Algarda. The rest of us were the feet and fingers that executed the Will.

  “You’re all too good. I’m not.” She closed her eyes and smacked her lips.

  Street legend accused her of having eaten some of her enemies. She’d never denied it, but I’d always considered it psychological warfare. Seeing her there dreaming of fava beans and . . . something, though, I was less inclined to be skeptical.

  A muted chunk! sounded elsewhere in the house, probably not far away. Never opening her eyes, the old horror said, “There is an eavesdropper in your house, Garrett. Deal with her.”

  18

  The eavesdropper led me on a very short chase. She was close enough to hear Shadowslinger tell me to get her. Fear rattled her. I caught her heading for the front door, in the open, apparently wading through invisible mud up to her hocks.

  “Helenia? You need to catch up with Preston and Target.”

  I had forgotten her completely. Preston and Target had stayed underfoot, but she had faded away, out of sight and out of mind. Which might be her special value to the Director. She might be one of those people with a knack for being overlooked, which can be frustrating when you’re young, but becomes a priceless skill in the spying and law enforcement games.

  I owed Helenia some so didn’t feel right doing anything beyond telling her to make herself scarce. “Before those less pleasant people back there take notice.” I thought that the most unpleasant of them all probably wanted Helenia to carry tales to her boss. It would be like her to use t
he Guard and Unpublished Committee to work her mischief.

  Pallid, Helenia bobbed her head and backed away, headed for the street. I followed her out, sort of herding her at first, then just accompanying her once we hit the flagstone drive. I stopped outside the gate. She headed west. I noted that the ugly black coach, surrounded by red tops but lacking Target, waited two blocks downhill. So. There had been a plan.

  I should have seen it coming.

  I was distracted by emotion, of course.

  Helenia walked faster as she moved farther away and the mud got shallower. She brushed past people who came out of the lane running alongside the property, flinching away from them.

  I forgot Helenia.

  Headed my way were the doll girl and groll that Strafa and I had seen near Shadowslinger’s place last night. The girl had said something. I hadn’t been interested at the time. I had forgotten the incident.

  They came up even with me, strolling, neither making eye contact. The little girl held the groll’s hand as though they were about to step out in a pavane. One step past me she said, “I warned you.”

  “What?”

  The odd pair moved on while I gulped air and tried to get the watermills of my mind to turn over. I opted for a strategy that had worked in the past. The hell with thought or planning. Charge! Get stuff happening, then sort through the wreckage.

  When I moved the groll shed his trance and looked back. Suddenly, Vicious Min looked like a runt. The groll eye nearest me glowed red. A trick of the light, surely, but it was sobering. He was not in a friendly mood.

  The watermills kerchunked. I did recall that Strafa, far better equipped to deal with the strange and supernatural than was I, had died right here, on this street, twenty feet from where I was about to make a huge, potentially lethal mistake of my own.

  I stopped. I watched for a moment. Then I turned, wound up my lazy old legs, and hustled after Helenia.

  My new family was pleased to explain, minutes later, that my mind was not yet working right. I should have summoned them immediately. One of them might actually have been able to do something. Shadowslinger seemed particularly interested, especially once I revealed that Strafa and I had had an earlier encounter with the same pair. In fact, she seemed quite disturbed but then closed down on her thoughts except to suggest that those two must be connected to the tournament, maybe as a Champion and Mortal Companion or Dread Companion, working some tactical angle.

  When Shadowslinger rolled out, with Barate behind her chair, with Bonegrinder foaming at the mouth and Tara Chayne Machtkess sniffing delicately, there was no pretty doll or ugly chaperone to be seen. Machtkess told us, “Their scent has dispersed.” She eyed me like she had begun to question my intelligence.

  Bonegrinder felt the surface of the street, shook his head. “No warmth left behind, either.”

  Shadowslinger said, “He didn’t make it up. He saw what he saw.” Her head turned slowly. She looked up at me from slitted eyes. “His word is gold.” As we headed back up the drive, she told me, “You have been given a thread to pull. Find out who she is, then yank it.”

  My word needed not stand alone. Helenia and the red tops had seen the strange pair. But there was no need to offer witnesses. I was Strafa’s husband. I belonged. Now, with me welcomed by Shadowslinger, there could be no doubts about my report.

  Right.

  It was a unique feeling, though. Kind of warming. I seldom got as much support or trust even from Dean, Singe, or Penny.

  They, though, had been schooled by me and Old Bones alike to question everything and those relationships had grown organically rather than dramatically.

  • • •

  New council of war, family-style, briefly. Shadowslinger chaired and did the talking. She reiterated her strategy. “We will take it easy till after the funeral. We will use that time to tame our emotions and consider our resources. After the interment we will gird our souls for war and rectify the imbalance.”

  I got a definite sense of understatement there. I pictured an apocalypse developing within her mind.

  “We will devour the Operators bite by slow, bloody bite, raw. Do you all understand?”

  She was playing off her evil reputation now, maybe hoping Strafa’s servants, in attendance as always, would mention her mood while gossiping with servants from other households.

  I hoped she wasn’t feeling literal. I hoped her reputation was exaggerated.

  After speechifying scary the horrid woman handed out assignments, a few of which did make it sound like she meant to eat somebody. The jobs were odds and ends we could pick up, snip off, wrap or unwrap, while we tamed our shock, pain, and crushing hatred, awaiting Strafa’s funeral. I got one of the heavier loads.

  She thought I ought to keep my mind occupied.

  I do have a tendency to brood when things aren’t going well.

  19

  I was not in a good mood. It was the bleakest day of my life.

  I stared at the glass-faced coffin and felt sorry for myself. Strafa looked like an angel sleeping, a precious child grown big without having lost her innocence.

  It felt like a huge, bad practical joke. She had to be pretending. This was a game in bad taste. She couldn’t be dead. Not really. That wasn’t possible. She would open her eyes any minute now. They would be a scintillating, teasing violet. Her face would shine in delight at having gotten us with her latest mischief and she would burst out laughing so sweetly that nobody would be able to hold it against her.

  The first raindrops plunked against the face of the coffin. It seemed to be the season for rain. Onlookers stirred. Women opened umbrellas. The Orthodox priest started to hurry. Horrid old Shadowslinger shifted her immense bulk a single step his way. If she could stand up in this, he could do his share with proper decorum and pacing.

  Father Amerigo forgot the cold, the wet, and his miserable feet. He became determined to make this the finest farewell ceremony ever celebrated in this cemetery.

  Strafa’s father, Kyoga, me, and my friend Morley Dotes would convey the casket into the Algarda mausoleum. The entrance was fifteen feet away. I had been inside earlier, during rehearsal. I hated the idea of going back. That would declare the whole thing final.

  A manicured slope rose behind the gray stone structure where Strafa would await her reward if she really accepted the Orthodox faith the Algardas professed officially. Which I doubted because the creed tells us we shouldn’t suffer the existence of witches, warlocks, or sorcery.

  These days most folks cremate, especially the rich and most especially those who dwell on the Hill. They don’t want their departed having any chance of making a comeback. My wife’s family, though, insisted on old-fashioned interment, unanimously, because Shadowslinger told them that was what they wanted.

  I sympathize with those who burn their blessed dead. Unlikely as it may sound, down the road somebody might try to bring them back. Not palatable to me even missing Strafa as much as I did. I have survived collisions with the risen dead. You never get back what was lost, and no revenant ever comes back good.

  Ghosts, on the other hand . . . I have had positive experiences with ghosts.

  Feral dogs observed the proceedings from the skyline.

  Shadowslinger gave them a glance, decided that they were what they appeared to be and, therefore, were of no real interest.

  I wondered why they were there. Maybe it was a territorial thing. I was preoccupied with Strafa but I did notice. So beautiful, she, perfect in life and near perfect now. I hadn’t prayed since I came home from the war, but I mumbled something, to any god inclined to listen. I would be half a man for a while with her gone.

  Our sudden separation was the ultimate cruelty. Each day, each hour that Strafa lay in darkness waiting, she would become more of a stranger.

  We grow older and change, no matter how hard we fight it.

  Father Amerigo droned on. I cataloged those who had come to offer their respects and support. Strafa, though the most won
derful woman I ever knew, had not had even one friend who had not been one of my friends first. And the only family I had anymore was the one that I acquired by coming together with her: Shadowslinger, blood-hungry; Barate, who had his big-boy fangs out now; and Kevans, who clung to Barate’s arm ferociously and would not stop crying.

  Her best friend, Kip, Cypres Prose, stood to her left, lightly touching her. He was crowded by his fiancée, Kyra Tate, who, in turn, stood in the shadow of her overprotective cousin Artifice. There were times when Kip and Kevans seemed like fraternal twins with different mothers.

  Most of my friends were on hand. Pular Singe and her brother, Pound Humility, known on the street as John Stretch. Playwright Jon Salvation with a three-woman personal entourage: Crush, DeeDee, and Mike, all gorgeous but looking exceedingly depressed. They had been fans of Strafa. Max Weider and Manvil Gilbey, with his wife, Heather, had come over from the brewery. Belinda Contague, girl psycho gangster, remained a little separate and appeared to have come alone, but there would be bodyguards somewhere. General Westman Block wore his dress uniform and headed a delegation of Guardsmen, probably hoping the killer could not resist an opportunity to bask in all our misery. Also there but standing back a little, watching, were my old friends Saucerhead Tharpe, Playmate, and Winger. Dean had wanted to come, but his old flesh had proven too fragile.

  Penny was closer to me than anyone, ready to grab hold if I broke down, but she lost it first. She buried her face in my left sleeve when the flood broke. She offered up endless apologies for being unable to stop and for having been so mean.

  Penny had worked hard at not liking Strafa so now felt guilty about having seen a secret wish come true.

  Singe eased over to take charge of Penny. I wouldn’t be able to help with Strafa’s coffin if I had a blubbering teenager hanging on.

  Hagekagome entered my life.

  20

  Singe yelled, “Look out!” I looked up, found a pretty, dark-haired girl hurtling toward me, growling.