Wicked Bronze Ambition

by Glen Cook

  Mariska had nothing.

  Since her recapture Moonslight spent much of her time drifting off the way I was so much lately. Maybe we should become a couple. But of what?

  Denvers still had dogs in the foyer, out of weather that had gone damp again. He felt comfortable leaving the door propped open so they could take their business outside.

  They barked some, neither alarmed nor combative. Denvers went to check, came back to announce, “Some people to see Mr. Garrett. Associates of his, they say.”

  Tara Chayne said, “Bring them in. See if they’re hungry. Unless there are a lot of them. We can’t feed a whole tribe.”

  “There are two, ma’am. We have no suitable furniture.”

  That told me who the visitors must be.

  Sure enough, Denvers came back with Pular Singe and Dollar Dan Justice. Singe declined the offer of hospitality. Dan looked disappointed. He was a real rat, and real rats are always ready to tuck in. You never know when you will get the chance again.

  I marveled that Singe had found me even in wet weather. Maybe I was developing Lurking Fehlske syndrome.

  She started out giving me an evil, accusatory look but lost that after sniffing the air and finding me not guilty. I don’t know why she would suspect me, with Tara Chayne. Females always expect the worst of us, I suppose so they can be pleasantly surprised every dozen years or so.

  I asked, “What’s up? Did something happen?”

  “Very little. Yet. I became concerned because you failed to come home.”

  “Exhaustion caught up.” I didn’t mention our gargoyle adventure.

  Trying to stagger home last night would have been tempting fate. No way would I have been alert enough to slip another ambush. Nor had Brownie and the girls been at their best.

  I was confident that “they” were still out to get me.

  Whoa! Hey. Kevans became Mortal Champion because Furious Tide of Light had been eliminated before the tournament’s official commencement. And they had tried to get her already.

  I told Tara Chayne, “We definitely need to go to Constance’s place.” I asked Singe, “Any change in Vicious Min?”

  “Not obviously. She is restless again. With Himself asleep . . .”

  “Yeah.” I had to worry big-time. Min might do some serious damage if she recovered even a little, as she had before. She might do permanent damage to Dean and the Dead Man.

  Singe told me, “I brought in Saucerhead and Winger and told them to protect people and property if they could but to let her go if it looked like she might hurt somebody. If Kolda’s drugs are not enough. I had Kolda give her some herbals.”

  Once again my little girl had proven herself so thoughtful and confident that it was scary.

  “I told Penny and Dean no fighting Min. They should keep our inside doors closed so she cannot get into my office or the Dead Man’s room. Dean can barricade the kitchen and go out the back if necessary. Mr. Mulclar worked on the back door. Dean can manage it now. I do not think Min can get upstairs. She should only be interested in getting away, anyway. Humility will have someone there to track her if she does run.”

  At her suggestion, no doubt.

  John Stretch is brilliant, yet I do suspect that he owes some of his success to his sister’s quiet suggestions.

  “That’s good,” I told her. She needs the occasional dose of praise. “How about Playmate and the girl?”

  “Playmate has gone home. He was concerned about his business.”

  “He should be. Why he leaves his idiot brother-in-law in charge is beyond me. What about Hagekagome? She go with?”

  The dogs showed an interest when I said the name.

  “He puts the brother-in-law in charge because he hopes responsibility will bring the man to a new appreciation of reality. An indulgence in willful wishful thinking, I expect. The girl stayed. Penny has her in with her. There is something exceedingly strange about that child.”

  “No kidding. Both of them, actually. But some people who know about Hagekagome want to keep it secret from me.”

  Tara Chayne might not have heard.

  Singe asked, “How old would you guess she is?”

  “Fourteen? Developed but a runt. And really, really slow.” Tapping the side of my head.

  “I would have guessed her to be about ten, but I’m not the sort who focuses on a human female’s secondary sexual characteristics. Penny says she keeps telling stories about wonderful times you had together when she was living with you. Really simpleminded stories. Going for walks, chasing squirrels, curling up in bed together.”

  “That never happened. I remember every woman and girl I ever shared a bed with, even when all we did was sleep. Like my cousin Hattie when we were five. I never slept with a ten-year-old. Ever. And squirrels? I haven’t seen a squirrel since I was ten. Not outside the Botanical Gardens. There aren’t any trees for them anymore. Firewood thieves cut the trees down and hungry people ate the squirrels.”

  “I know. All that. None of it sounds like you. And Penny says the way Hagekagome tells it that stuff did all happen when you were ten.”

  “What? No. But . . .” But.

  I have seen enough to know never to use the word impossible. A dim and worshipful girl who had slipped a few decades in time? Unlikely, but I couldn’t reject the notion. I’d get my nose rubbed in it for sure if I did.

  The trouble was, there’d never been a Hagekagome in my life before the funeral. Stipulating that I did have a vague sense that I ought to know that name.

  A wave of sadness welled up and nearly brought me to tears.

  “You remembered something?”

  “No. I just thought about Strafa. Maybe I’ll go see her later.”

  87

  Tara Chayne pulled the bell chain beside Shadowslinger’s door. A weird shriek sounded on the other side. She didn’t wait for a response. She opened up and invited us in.

  Mashego turned up as we were reorganizing in the foyer. She told us, “We were hoping you would come today. There is good news.”

  I refrained from comment. Nothing good could come out of my mouth just now.

  Tara Chayne asked, “That good news would be what?”

  “The mistress is awake. It happened during the night.”

  “Excellent.”

  “However, she isn’t herself yet. She’s sitting up. She’s taking food and drink—plenty of both—but she is confused and has trouble communicating.”

  Bashir joined us. “She doesn’t seem quite sure who she is or where. She has trouble talking clearly.”

  I said, “Classic stroke stuff, then.”

  “Yes. Dr. Ted concurs, with reservations.”

  “Reservations?”

  “He says there are anomalies. But that there always are. You’ll have to ask him about that.”

  “I see.” I glanced at Tara Chayne. She didn’t appear as pleased as she might have been. Still, she was a sparkling fountain of positivism compared to her sister. For Mariska the news seemed bleak indeed.

  Singe and Dollar Dan had no comment and, likely, didn’t care. They were flighty as dust motes in a sunbeam, in constant motion in relation to each other and Mariska, always making sure they were poised to counter anything she tried.

  Their nostrils and whiskers, and their ears, twitched and flexed, twitched and flexed. I thought it reasonable to assume that they were catching sound and scent cues that said Moonslight was considering trying something the moment she thought she had a chance.

  I faced Mariska, leaned in, looked her in the eye from bad-breath range. “Not a good idea to try right now.” Which startled her totally.

  She had been so busy calculating that she hadn’t caught the cues she should have picked up from the rest of us.

  One glance round showed her that escape wasn’t going to happen.

  There was a noise out front, right on time. She looked hopeful for an instant, then lapsed into despair.

  Moonblight demanded, “Really? You were th
inking that way? Now? Under these . . . ?” Then she understood why her sister might take an idiot’s chance.

  This was Shadowslinger’s hole-up. Shadowslinger was back. The old sow might be confused now, but how long would that last? How long before she remembered that her granddaughter had been murdered just down the Hill? How long before she heard that Mariska Machtkess had been in with one of the Operators?

  I’d be desperate, too.

  For no concrete reason, though, I was sure that Moonslight had had nothing to do with Strafa’s death. I was sure she knew no more about the murder than the rest of us did—despite her connections with the Operators.

  I told Singe, “I just had an awful notion.” I grabbed Barate as he and Kevans came in quarreling, their timing perfect. “That was you two making the racket out there?”

  “What?” he snapped. He was not in a good mood. Kevans was less so. Neither showed any improvement when Bashir told them that Shadowslinger had awakened.

  I told anyone who cared to listen, “I just realized that, despite everything they’ve done to mess with us and hurt us, the Operators haven’t been acting like they were responsible for what happened to Strafa.” I laid a hard, fierce, pointed look on Mariska Machtkess and got enough force behind it to make her push back.

  “He had nothing to do with what happened to Strafa.” “He” presumably being her clergyman boyfriend. “He was extremely unhappy about that. It meant that she couldn’t participate.”

  Moonslight and I faced each other with people two-deep around us now. She continued. “He was sure his people were not involved. It would be stupid to eliminate Furious Tide of Light before the contest started.”

  I had been thinking that for a while. “Why would Strafa even be picked when the tournament usually pulled in only young people?”

  Mariska eyed me like she thought the Algarda family Mortal Companion had been stricken dim. She pointed at Barate, then Kevans, stealthily.

  Oh. They had no talent to give up.

  She went ahead and said it. “Furious Tide of Light was a Windwalker and more besides. She was a deep reservoir of power and talent. She never did figure out what all she could do. She wasn’t that interested.”

  And, I suspected, she’d looked like an easy harvest.

  She was always trusting and naive.

  That could have been what got her killed. Not having the kind of mind that would be wary of someone rolling a big-ass siege engine up the street. I could see her watching somebody park and arm the ugly bastard without ever being more than child-curious until it was too late.

  I said, “Barate, we need to get everybody together so we can share whatever we’ve found out. I haven’t gotten much. I kept nipping around the edges of the tournament thing. The villains kept coming at me from every angle.”

  “Considering their success so far and the relentless interest of the Guard, they must be running short on dirty workers.”

  Kevans’s mood did not improve. She was unhappy about everything. Plus, she’d had her nose rubbed in the fact that she had been passed over in favor of an old woman like her mother.

  She was the new Algarda Champion, but one unsuccessful attack had convinced her that she wanted no part of the game. That had penetrated her shield of adolescent wishful thinking. That had gotten her attention where the murder of her mother had not.

  Kevans felt compelled to say something. “I’m going to go check on Grandmother. Then I’m going to stay right here, with her, until this absurd shit is over.” Her glare dared anyone to disagree or to correct her language.

  All she got was an explosive sigh of relief from her father.

  88

  Once we started upstairs I no longer wanted to go. It had to be done, though. It could be. I had dealt with other warped defectives.

  I don’t know why I thought Shadowslinger’s having suffered a stroke would make her more dangerous, but the conviction was there.

  Her room stank of sickness and foul digestive gasses. Mashego was with her, beside the bed, patiently spooning Shadowslinger a dog-food-looking meat paste a bit at a time.

  Shadowslinger looked healthier than I expected, considering how vicious strokes can be. She recognized us. She tried to talk but could not produce a sensible sentence, nor was her speech clear enough to understand. My mother was the same way after her second stroke.

  Mom had trouble communicating after the first but had come up with workarounds. Worst for me had been her inability to get my name out. She called me “man” or “that man.”

  Shadowslinger’s chow looked just awful. It probably smelled awful, too, but the stink could not break through that already in the room.

  With the tact of her age Kevans said, “Isn’t there a window we can open or something? This place reeks enough to gag a maggot.”

  No window was visible. Wall hangings kept any outside light well tamed.

  Cold eyes settled on me. Where else could Kevans have acquired an expression like the one she’d used?

  One pair belonged to the old sorceress herself. I thought I ambushed a glint of amusement. It went away quickly but left me reflective.

  Bashir oozed through the crowd, past the foot of Grandmother’s bed, to the wall on the far side. “Would you give me a hand, sir?” He wanted to take down the massive carpet that hung against that wall.

  And carpet it was. You could see the wear patterns traffic had left when it graced the floor of some Venageti poobah, before Shadowslinger arranged for it to have a better home.

  I asked for instructions. Bashir provided them. Straining, we lowered the hanging to the floor. That revealed a moth-eaten tapestry. That coming down revealed a window behind. Clearing the shades and shutters so its leaves could be swung wide demanded careful work. The wooden parts were rotten.

  Bashir swung the leaves inward, right and left, so he could get the outside shutters open. Then he swung the windows outward. Constance made unhappy noises. She did not want to face the outside light.

  She did not have to shrink from that. The outside world had gone completely glum and rainy. Soggy cold air tumbled inside.

  I stated the obvious. “Those shutters need replacing.” Paint wouldn’t be enough. They had gone too long without.

  Barate said, “Another of a thousand maintenance issues that have been ignored for years.” He spoke toward the window. Neither his mother nor Bashir responded.

  Kevans muttered something about how somebody who was too damned cheap to spend a copper now was going to have to shell out silver later. That did get a reaction from Shadowslinger, who had caught every critical inflection.

  I decided to be the peacemaker. “We have bigger problems. Let’s deal with them before we decide what rouge to put on the pig.”

  Barate said, “Much as we need fresh air in here, I think we can do without the wind and the rain.”

  A gust had just scattered a gallon of cold drizzle inside.

  Barate pulled one wing of the window shut and the other in till there was just a four-inch gap. Mashego backed off with the meat paste and, instead, handed the old horror a pad of paper and one of Cypres Prose’s stoutest Amalgamated writing sticks. Shadowslinger was able, impatiently, to communicate via head shake and clumsy block letter printing.

  She used her right hand. Like most Algardas, though, she was naturally left-handed. Her left side had more coming back to do.

  She let us know that she wanted to hear every detail of what had been going on while she was unconscious. She took the reports without reacting unless two or three people started talking over one another or arguing about some detail. She did show some irritation when Moonslight’s role came up. She didn’t seem especially surprised to learn that old campaigning pal Meyness B. Stornes had survived and was masquerading as a magister of the Church. She did get excited when she heard that Kevans had been drafted in Strafa’s stead and that someone had tried to kill her.

  The attacks on me and Tara Chayne were, apparently, no big deal. Only to be
expected. Just a device for attritting the opposition.

  Somehow the Black Orchid never came up. Shadowslinger had Dollar Dan Justice come tell what the rat men had done and seen while helping deal with Kevans’s attackers. That only left her more upset.

  I did my best to help Dan relax and report calmly. I also observed, “We still don’t have a Dread Companion.”

  Shadowslinger’s sleepy gaze brushed me momentarily. She was exhausted now. She was pushing herself too hard. She grunted. I couldn’t tell what that meant, nor could anyone else.

  Dr. Ted had remained quiet and out of the way till now. He decided that she was about to hit a wall. “Time for everyone to leave. Bashir, take them to the kitchen. They can go on with this down there.”

  By which he meant following up on secondary conversations concerning the evidence having to do with Strafa’s death as well as the search-and-research work that had been under way.

  Singe would, likely, be more use there than I would. She was in touch with the people doing the digging at least part-time.

  I was next to last to go, leaving only Mash behind me. Dr. Ted had no intention of leaving.

  Shadowslinger completed a laborious effort with her writing stick. She held the pad up, hands trembling. It said Everyone out! Accept Garrett.

  You don’t correct a Shadowslinger. Not when you know what she meant.

  Ted and Mash both wanted to argue. Ted and Mash gave that up after one good look at Shadowslinger’s darkening visage.

  Visage is one of those cool words you don’t get to use much. It was the perfect choice here. The terrible old woman’s face had become a curtain between her interior realm and the rest of the universe. Intimations of rising storms therein left you determined to be somewhere else when the curtain rose.

  Shadowslinger leaned into her writing stick and paper while Ted and Mashego made their getaway.

  89