Wicked Bronze Ambition

by Glen Cook

“Don’t let me fall asleep while we’re waiting for it to report.” I had settled down with my back to the side of somebody’s front steps. Brownie halfway climbed into my lap. The rest of the pack snuggled up, ready to sleep in a big, hot pile. Everybody was exhausted.

  Very little time passed, but Tara Chayne had to use a magnum finger poke to bring me back. “Mariska is in there, alone.” She was uncomfortable for some reason.

  “What’s wrong?” Groggily.

  “The property belongs to the Hausers. It’s empty today, but I remember visiting the place when I was a kid.”

  That left me with a sinking feeling. “Does that mean . . . ?”

  “I’m hoping it just means Mariska ran to a place she knew would be empty, though she had to penetrate some ferocious wards to get in.”

  Obviously. Otherwise the place would have been reduced to a hole in the ground long since.

  “I don’t want to think that Richt might be one of the Operators.”

  That didn’t seem plausible. Not sure why. My brain was working at ten percent. “Let’s just load the wagon and worry about where the mules will come from when we need them.”

  “What? Oh. I got you. A little borrowed country wisdom.”

  “Wisdom, anyway.”

  “About earlier. I didn’t mean to shut you out. I was preoccupied. The people messing with your Fehlske creature were Big Thing and Curly Top. Big Thing poked Fehlske a few times. When he didn’t respond, it picked him up and took him away.”

  “Whoa! That thing is a better man than me, then.”

  “Perhaps it hails from a plane where such odors are perfume.”

  “Yeah. Sure. I’ll buy that.” The little blonde had begun to collect people from outside the tournament? Why?

  More twists. More nonsense. And me such a simple, straightforward kind of Marine. “Let’s do what we need to do.” I lived through the struggle to get to my feet. “And here we go, girls.”

  The centipede hurried ahead. It wasn’t worn out. The rest of us limped and dragged.

  The first door we tried was protected with physical locks backed by magical wards. Nobody felt like looking for an easier entry. Moonblight used what energy she had left to break the locks and crack wards put in place by somebody as wrung out as we were.

  We found Moonslight snoring on a braided rag rug in a huge room otherwise naked of furnishings. The entire house lacked any furnishings.

  84

  That finger poke, one more time. It was morning. Light didn’t improve the ambience of the vacant house, nor did it increase the appeal of the witch with whom we shared it. The floor—my mattress—remained as soft as chert. Tara Chayne showed me that she had the stamina of a sergeant major, last to retire and first to rise.

  It was morning. Light was getting inside somehow. I grumbled, “Why the hell do you keep doing that? It hurts!”

  “Because it works. Get up. Time to go. We’ve been in one exposed position for far too long.”

  That made it feel like a recon mission back in the islands.

  Misery, curdled, then double-dipped.

  She did have a point. That little nasty was out there with her giant-ass friend, plus who knew what all else with a bad attitude where we were concerned?

  Obviously, Tara Chayne Machtkess didn’t just sit around Force headquarters when she’d gone down South. She was here for this morning because she’d learned her lessons then.

  I sat up. “I feel like death on a stick and we never had anything to drink.”

  Brownie whimpered, maybe in sympathy but more likely in hunger. We’d been a team for no time and already she and her crew were spoiled.

  I observed, “This is the hardest damned floor I ever slept on.” The room itself was as big as a barn. A ballroom once, I suppose.

  Some thumping then, from beyond Tara Chayne.

  “And your little sis agrees.” I leaned forward for a better look.

  Mariska remained well and truly bound and gagged. She wanted to say something. She seemed desperate to speak. It might not be what I first thought. I could smell well enough to get that what she really wanted to do was complain.

  Tara Chayne observed, “If you’d just stuck with us last night, you’d have woken up in a real bed, clean and dry.”

  Thump-thump. Thump-thump!

  I said, “I believe I sense some anger issues.”

  “She can be that way sometimes.”

  “Last night we said we were going to take her back to your place today. That made sense at the time. But couldn’t it be a little risky?”

  “It could be. Yes. But I’ve already informed Denvers. Things are in motion. We’ll stick to the plan.”

  She sent a message? How?

  No sooner wondered than answered. The centipede thing.

  It curled around Moonblight’s neck, whispered into her ear. Then it unwound and slithered into a corner, where it faded from sight.

  Tara Chayne grumbled, “Get your butt up so you can help me get up.”

  Oh. All right. She was in a foul mood because, despite not being bound, she remained a prisoner of her body. She resented the infirmities of age. More, she hated showing those where others could see.

  Aching everywhere, I shifted my bones. I helped the sorceress. Between us, muttering and whining, we got Mariska upright, too.

  Tara Chayne grumbled, “At least you didn’t sleep on a bare floor.” Not that the rag carpet would have given Mariska much comfort.

  I growled, “Can’t we just shut up and go? We’re all hurting. This whining doesn’t help. And I’m starving.”

  Mention of hunger, even if not by name, got the interest of the dogs, all of whom made noises showing that they agreed with me.

  I limped to the door. We had left obvious signs of breakage. We—in the form of Tara Chayne Machtkess—would have to apologize to Richt Hauser and make restitution. I took a cautious look outside, saw nothing suspicious, nor anything likely to attract attention—other than the coach rolling up. The coachman was having trouble staying awake.

  “Oh, excellent!” Tara Chayne barked. “Most excellent. Here already, Chase gets a bonus. Let’s move out. All aboard!”

  She crossed to the coach boldly, indifferent to curious looks from a passerby, leaving me to manage Mariska. I would be the great hairy thing remembered if a kidnapping story began to circulate.

  Tara Chayne opened the coach door, chucked dogs inside. That offended Mariska’s dignity. With hands bound behind her and wearing a gag, she still managed to make her displeasure plain. Stray dogs were so far beneath her that they did not belong in the same city, let alone the same vehicle, where they would shed mangy fur and parasites all over her.

  Tara Chayne told her, “I could tie a rope around your neck and let you run along behind. You think you can keep up?”

  Mariska allowed me to help her board.

  Every facial twitch thereafter, as she sat facing us during our ride, betrayed a determination toward paybacks once the tables turned. And she was confident that they would.

  These girls had been in this contest for a long time.

  Mariska might be with the Operators more because Tara Chayne had chosen to oppose them than for some other irrational reason, including nostalgic romance.

  I fought down a grin on imagining Mariska blaring mad laughter and yelling, “Retribution shall be mine!”

  Neither woman was pleased when I couldn’t keep the grin off my clock. But I would survive. Brownie still loved me.

  85

  The coachman dropped us in front of the Machtkess place while sunrise remained a looming threat. Denvers was waiting. He had no question or comment. Mariska was in a bleak mood. Her future could be nothing but a plunge over a precipice into the abyss.

  Tara Chayne exploited the captive audience situation mercilessly, needling Mariska, trying to winkle out details by taunting her twin with what we knew already.

  The technique was new to me. It might be proprietary, working only inside the Ma
chtkess crew. Whatever, it did work in that Mariska became unable to keep her mouth shut. Still, yammer as she might, she didn’t give us anything really useful. In the main, she just hemorrhaged emotionally.

  Maybe when you’re twins who have been at each other for three generations, you develop a shorthand script for cutting each other up.

  Denvers was an amazement. He was the miracle man I always wanted Dean to be, with a better attitude. He had a breakfast ready when we got there. He began serving dogs and all as soon as he sent the coach on its way. He freed Mariska without comment, settled her in a chair that snagged her bony butt and held her down. She and Tara Chayne both seemed embarrassed around Denvers, like children who had done something naughty and expected to hear about it. Their manners toward each other were impeccable and ignored everything that had happened before they settled at the table.

  The oddest thing was, Chase Denvers was younger than they were by more than a generation.

  The dogs were settled and happy. Mariska picked at her food. Tara Chayne wolfed hers. I proceeded at a workmanlike pace. Denvers posted himself behind me. I sat opposite Tara Chayne. Mariska was between us, at the side of the table, to my right. He announced, “Madame Hedley-Farfoul wakened me in the night, having evaded and slipped our best wards.”

  That pleased neither sister. It bothered me less because I didn’t know the woman. Mariska stopped eating altogether. Tara Chayne asked, “What was on Orchidia’s mind?”

  “She was obscure. Her principal interest seemed to be locating your gentleman friend here, however.”

  I pointed at my chest. Me? Couldn’t be me, surely. But Tara Chayne took a cue from Denvers and nodded.

  Not good. Not good at all. “She say why?”

  “She did not. As I reported, sir, she was opaque. Nevertheless, it did seem related to the tragedy involving your spouse.”

  “How so? Wait. Never mind. Question withdrawn. You said she wasn’t forthcoming.”

  He nodded, expression bland. The dummy was catching on. “She most certainly was not, sir.”

  “Any cues in her attitude?” I was hoping she hadn’t gotten any crazy ideas about me or mine being connected to what happened to her twins.

  My own twins had distant looks. Mariska cocked her head like she was trying to hear something faint from far away. Tara Chayne whispered to herself. Only her centipede heard her. It came out from under a sideboard, swam away through the air.

  I wondered if she would ever put that thing away again.

  Why would she in these exciting times?

  Or maybe it wouldn’t let her.

  Too often sorcery works that way. Once out of the bottle, it stays out.

  Denvers considered carefully before telling me, “I believe she just wanted to talk, sir, about your mutual losses. But she did seem to feel that patience had become a luxury.”

  Been there a few times. You just want to hurt things and break people till your own pain and anxiety go away.

  “Then we’ll hear from her soon,” Tara Chayne said. “And she’ll make her interest clear. Chase, you’ve outdone yourself. I’m almost tempted to give you a raise.”

  “Almost, ma’am?”

  “Almost. If I actually did you’d be making too much to be hungry enough to always do your best. You’d start slacking off and then I’d have to fire you.”

  Denvers said, “Very well, ma’am. Perhaps you are correct.”

  “Of course I am. Never in the history of opinions have I been wrong, except for that one time when I thought I was wrong.”

  “Yes indeed, ma’am. It is an amazement, how you can be so perfectly right in every instance, even when you disagree with Madame Mariska, who is also correct on every occasion.” Denvers turned to Mariska. Maybe she was supposed to threaten to hire him away, but her head wasn’t in the game. She was wandering the wilderness of her thoughts.

  Tara Chayne said, “Harumph!” An expression you hardly ever hear these days, unless you’re around folks way older than you are. “All right. You’re safe for now, Chase. Tell me what you learned about the conflict on the Hill last night.” Sounding thoroughly confident that Denvers would have something to report.

  Denvers launched a lengthy exposition that made it sound like he had directly witnessed two discrete incidents, one of which had dragged on for an hour, generating substantial collateral damage, then ended in a no-decision when the neighbors turned all buzz-kill on the duelists.

  I observed, “Once again youthful high spirits are stifled by old sticks in the mud.” What’s a little property damage when you’re having fun?

  My jest hit the floor and lay there twitching in terminal tremors.

  The encounter had blown air through the banked coals of clan hatreds born generations before the tournaments began. This flare-up had involved more participants than the anointed sets of Champions and Companions. Neither family would take a ritual defeat.

  Another flaw in the tournament concept had surfaced.

  I said, “Bet that’s got the Operators all excited.” Seemed to me that nobody needed to sabotage anything. The tournament could go belly up all on its own.

  Nobody wanted to stick to the once-upon-a-time formalized rules.

  Hell, most people didn’t want to play. If anybody was going to get hurt, they hoped that would be the shithead Operators.

  Mariska finally asked, “Orchidia really is involved?”

  “Orchidia truly is, oh yes!” Tara Chayne burbled maliciously. “She lost her twins. She is not happy. Some have gotten hurt already, including your dear friend K’thul Hoo, who is no longer with us. More are going to get hurt. The Black Orchid does not fool around!”

  Tara Chayne sounded thrilled. Mariska was aghast. “K’thul Hoo C’thug? What . . . ?”

  Moonblight added, “Orchidia might accomplish what we couldn’t last time. She might rid us of the Operators and their agents forever.”

  Moonslight began to shake.

  Only then did Tara Chayne get it.

  Mariska Machtkess would be on the Black Orchid’s list. Mariska was the quarry that had drawn Orchidia to my house in time to deal with the squid-headed doom.

  Denvers said, “The second incident was considerably smaller and not nearly as flashy, but your guest will find it of more personal interest.” He faced me. “There was an attack in which your daughter was targeted. Thank heaven, it failed.”

  I frowned. My daughter? What was he blathering about? I have no daughter, nor any other known offspring. Just some informally adopted . . .

  “Excuse me, sir. Your stepdaughter is what I should have said.”

  “Oh. Kevans? Oh! Shit! What happened? She’s all right? How bad—”

  “Relax, sir. She wasn’t harmed and she’s quite safe now, thanks be to Bonegrinder, Kyoga Stornes, and a mysterious intercessor of unnaturally large size with an exceptionally foul temper. Witnesses said that he appeared to take the assault personally.”

  Naturally, I got all angry impatient and demanded details only the attackers could know. Denvers, however, delivered to the extent that I wondered if he wasn’t making stuff up so he could answer increasingly minute demands.

  “Stop it, Garrett,” Tara Chayne said. “Shut up and listen.”

  “Huh?”

  “You’re so tired you’ve started making yourself obnoxious. We didn’t rest well last night. I suggest we do so now, in real beds, and pick it up after lunch.”

  Before I could commence to begin to start taking anything wrong, Denvers said, “I’ll show you to the guest quarters, sir. Your associates have been bedded down in the foyer.”

  Guest quarters? Associates? I pushed back from the table and rose, snagging a roll as I went.

  I had not yet cleared the room when the twins began to bicker, each bone weary and Mariska handicapped by the ration of terror found wriggling on her plate only moments ago.

  I checked the mutts. They were all tangled up and sound asleep. Not one cracked an eyelid. All had bulging belli
es. I told Denvers, “Thank you.”

  He nodded, gestured for me to follow.

  Guest quarters were back by the kitchen and just big enough to contain a cot. The door had a lockable outside latch I pretended not to notice. Good man Denvers went away without securing it.

  I was as tired as I’d been in ages. So tired that I never had a thought about how my staying out all night might cause some worry elsewhere.

  86

  “Is there a plan for today?” Tara Chayne asked, picking at lunch and pretending I was in charge. “Something more directed than what we did yesterday?”

  “We did good work. We got stuff stirred. We got stuff done.”

  Denvers had produced a fine lunch. I wondered what it would take to get him to take over for Dean. It was time Dean stepped back and slowed down.

  Realistically, there was no chance that Denvers would. He was exactly where he wanted to be.

  The sisters had made some surface peace. Tara Chayne was treating her twin as a truculent associate in our enterprise.

  I couldn’t turn a blind eye to what had happened earlier, but they had no trouble because they had decades of practice.

  I understood the core motives behind the shift.

  There was an angry professional killer out there who might be interested in hurting Moonslight. Her place in the conspiracy needed redefinition.

  I was too groggy to think about anything but aches and pains in a body unaccustomed to so much extended, unhealthy exercise.

  Pain is proof that exercise is not good. Pain is nature’s way of telling you to knock it off or you’re going to hurt yourself.

  Oh, sigh. “I was thinking about going to Constance’s place, getting everybody together, see who found out what, then scope out what to do next. Especially where Magister Bezma and Orchidia Hedley-Farfoul are concerned.”

  I probably ought to see Morley and Belinda and check in at the house to see if anyone there had heard anything interesting. We had all kinds of people supposed to be snooping. And the Dead Man might, hopefully, be recovering.

  The twins grunted in unison. Tara Chayne said, “I was hoping for something more direct. I like a plan more sophisticated than ‘Let’s go whale on some bushes with sticks and see what runs out.’” She eyed her sister as though willing Mariska to contribute.