Faded Steel Heat gf-9

by Glen Cook

  Clerks.

  Do not antagonize them simply for the sake of deflating their pomposity, Garrett.

  I need a new partner. This one knows me too well.

  They seemed surprised. "How did you?... "

  "I'm a trained detective." Self-educated. From a very short syllabus.

  "It's obvious?" The brunette almost whined. These would be guys whose self-image included no whinery but who would whine a lot and call it something else. In their own minds they were big hairy-assed he-men.

  Clerks.

  "When you're headed wherever you go when you leave, compare yourselves to everybody else. To human male people, anyway." That might have the unfortunate side effect of encouraging their feelings of superiority, but they might see what I meant. "You can't be a secret agent if you're wearing a sign."

  They exchanged baffled looks. They were lost. Pretty but not bright. The blond asked, "May we come in?"

  "By all means." I stepped aside. "We can talk in my office. Second door to your left."

  Be hospitable, Garrett.

  "Either one of you guys want a parrot?"

  Garrett!

  Both men had wrinkled their noses when first they saw me and my bird. Everybody was a clothes critic nowadays. Why? I was decent. I was even clean. These guys looked around like they expected the place to be a dump. They seemed pleasantly disappointed that it wasn't.

  Dean does good work.

  We trooped into the closet I call an office. I told them, "My man Dean will bring tea in a minute."

  They eyed me uncertainly. How could I know?

  My office is less ordered than the hallway. I don't let Dean loose in there. And behind my desk hangs a painting that Dean hates.

  At first you just see a pretty woman running from a brooding darkness. But as you stare at the painting more and more of that darkness reaches out to you. The artist who created it had been possessed by a talent so fierce that it amounted to sorcery. It drove him mad. He put everything into this painting, including his insanity. It was personal. At one time it told a whole story and indicted a villain. It doesn't have a tenth its original charge now but still retains an immense impact. It exudes terror.

  "That's Eleanor," I said. "She died before I was born but she helped me crack a case." She did a lot more.

  The portrait once belonged to the man who murdered Eleanor. He's dead now, too. He doesn't need the painting anymore. I do. Eleanor makes a better sounding board than Dean, the Dead Man, or the Goddamn Parrot. She's seldom judgmental and she never gives me any lip.

  Blondie said, "We understand you're often involved in unusual affairs."

  "I'm a lightning rod for weird stuff. Thanks, Dean." The big tray carried the right number of cups, cookies and muffins, and a steaming pot of tea. The boys exchanged glances, nervous under Eleanor's piercing gaze and Dean's stern disapproval.

  Dean left. I poured and asked, "What can I do for you guys? Really."

  They exchanged glances again.

  "Look, boys, I'm working hard here." The Goddamn Parrot squawked in my ear. "If you just need a place to get in out of the rain I recommend Mrs. Cardonlos' rooming house up the street. On the other... "

  "Awk! Queen bitch! Queen bitch!"

  "It's not raining." Literal-minded clerks.

  "Stow it, bird," I growled at the Goddamn Parrot.

  My visitors exchanged looks again.

  This could go on all day.

  7

  The blond said, "I apologize, Mr. Garrett. We were cautioned that we might find you unconventional and should try to become comfortable with that before proceeding."

  "Puny penis!" the parrot squawked.

  I snarled, "You're going into the sack again, you animated feather duster."

  The brunette smiled insincerely. "Is that ventriloquism? When I was little I had an uncle who could—"

  "Why does everybody ask that? No. This devil-spawn of a seven-color jungle pigeon does it all on his own. He's got a vocabulary bigger than yours or mine and every word is foul. Fowl. Maybe there was sorcery done him sometime. I don't know. He was a gift. I can't seem to get rid of him."

  "Pencil dick."

  Now nobody was smiling. Again I thought about choking the Dead Man, only what good would that do? Strengthen my grip?

  The blond said, "My name is Carter Stockwell."

  So we were going to do business after all. "I'm not surprised. And you?"

  "Trace Wendover."

  "Of course. Hello, Carter and Trace. Sure you don't want a talking parrot? Cheap? Make a great holiday gift for the kids."

  Garrett, once again I must caution you against antagonizing these men.

  "No? All right. I made my sales pitch. Your loss. You guys make yours. Or go away."

  "We were told you might be ill-mannered." That was the darker one. Trace.

  Carter said, "Our mission is to interest you in contributing to our cause."

  "Right now I've got about six copper sceats to clink together. The only cause I'm going to contribute to is the Garrett household supper fund."

  "We don't want money. Please. Give us a chance to talk."

  "You've been here ten minutes. You haven't said anything yet."

  "You're right. We are Free Company men. Black Dragon Valsung." Carter watched for my reaction.

  "What's that?" I asked.

  Trace countered, "You don't know the Dragons?"

  "Sorry." Heeding the Dead Man's advice I forebore remarks that might betray my feelings about those quasi-military gangs called Free Companies. There are so many of them that not having heard of a particular one was no big deal.

  "Our leader is Colonel Valsung. Norton Valsung." I got intent looks from both pretty boys.

  I shrugged. "Doesn't ring a bell, guys. He must have been army."

  Carter began to puff up. He'd caught the slight. Trace, though, was made of sterner stuff. "Yes, Mr. Garrett. Colonel Valsung was army. He commanded the Black Dragon Brigade." Trace tossed him a warning look but he continued, "You would be impressed if you were to review his record."

  No doubt. War does tend to expose men for what they really are. "Wouldn't be a relative, would he?"

  "My uncle."

  "The ventriloquist? I recall several colonels who were masters at putting words into other people's mouths."

  "No, Mr. Garrett. Not that uncle."

  "We're getting somewhere now. We have a colonel who isn't a ventriloquist. What does your uncle the nonventriloquist want with me?"

  "Your peculiar combination of talents and expertise, both from your service and your career since."

  I didn't get it. "You need a Force Recon guy with experience ducking vampires and sorcerers and tracking wayward wives to help you beat up old dwarves and crippled ratmen?"

  Garrett!

  Both of my visitors turned red. But Carter was out in front because he'd gotten a head start. Trace said, "Mr. Garrett, we do not roam the streets assaulting people. We are a veterans' mutual assistance brotherhood, not a street gang."

  "The other day a veteran, who'd done five five-year hitches, three in the Cantard, was almost beaten to death right outside. He'd won eight decorations, including the Imperial Star with Swords and Oak Leaves. In one battle he lost half of his left arm and most of that side of his face in a blast from a witch ward. He's in the Bledsoe now. He probably won't get out alive. Those butchers won't pay any attention to him. He doesn't have any money. Go down there and mutually assist him. His name is Brate Trueblood."

  "But the Bledsoe is a charity hospital, isn't it?"

  "You didn't grow up in TunFaire, did you? In this town charity is available only to those who can pay for it."

  "No. That's ugly." Trace seemed genuinely touched. Carter obviously didn't care but was cooling down. "That's exactly why we have to band together."

  "But there's a problem, Trace. Brate was a real hero and as good a soldier as ever soldiered. Unfortunately, he made one really huge, stupid mistake."


  My visitors looked at me expectantly.

  Garrett, please! Stop now. The Dead Man seemed almost to despair.

  "He was so stupid he picked an ogre for one of his grandparents."

  It took them a while to catch on. I watched their eyes narrow and go shifty as they figured it out. Carter was slowest but he was the first to stand up. He told me, "You have the wrong idea." And, "Trace, we're wasting our time here."

  "You're not wasting your time, Carter," I said. "I just want you to understand that nothing is black-and-white." I tried to hold Trace's eye. He seemed to be mulling my parable. "What did you guys do down there? You were clerks, right? Your uncle got you some safe assignment, right? Trace? Carter? You had an angel, too? So who do you suppose did more to defend and preserve the Karentine Crown? You guys or my ugly quadroon?"

  Carter said, "You really don't know what's happening, do you?" And that actually seemed to please him.

  I left my chair, moved to the office doorway. "You aren't wasting your time, guys. I'm right behind you. I just need to know how to reconcile the Brate Truebloods."

  Trace started to say something. Carter squeezed his arm.

  In moments those earnest young men were back in the street. Carter, I was convinced, would ignore my story, which was true only in a moral sense anyway. There really is a Brate Trueblood but he was just a small hero and the thugs who jumped him didn't put him in the hospital. Ogre blood made him hard to hurt. But these two creeps did want Brate in the Bledsoe. Or worse.

  I might have done the devil's work with Trace, though. He looked like a young man who might, on occasion, actually have a thought.

  I whistled as I bolted the door, blissful in my ignorance.

  8

  That was not one of your more salubrious performances, Garrett. That flake of moral hubris may come back to haunt you.

  "Come on! They're jerks. Especially the blond one."

  Their minds did not reflect the prejudice you expect. But such jerks are quite common today. They are aggrieved. They need targets for their frustration. Those two seemed to be fundamentally good men... Yet —

  "Yet? What?"

  They had no depth. Even a mind as dim as Saucerhead Thorpe's has its deeps.

  "No kidding? They're a couple of pretty boys who never worked a day—"

  Not shallow, Garrett. Not that way. Just all surface. Inside. Humans are filled with turmoil. Continuous dark currents collide and roil down deep where you do not see them and do not know them. Always. Even in Mr. Thorpe or Miss Winger. But those two had nothing beneath the fanatic surface. And that fanaticism was not as narrow and blind as is common. They grasped your Trueblood parable. They seemed unable to deal with it only because doing so would not have been in character.

  Well, he'd lost me. Except for the part about being all surface. "That don't surprise me. I know those guys. I' ve seen a lot of them. They just give up everything and let somebody else do their thinking. Life is easier that way."

  Perhaps. But I have a strong intuition that we would have been better served had you held them here whilst I milked them rather than driving them away.

  "Milked them? I didn't hear a moo from either one."

  Intentional obtuseness seldom finds a complimentary acute observation. You should have probed them for information. You should have held them while I wormed in under their surfaces. He refused to let me exasperate him more than I had already. Their particular Free Company may finance itself by extorting funds in the name of The Call. But we are in no position to winkle that out now. Are we?

  I hate it when he's right. And he was right. I let my emotions take over. I hadn't thought of those two in relation to the Weider problem. Yet they could have had that in mind. One of their cronies might have noticed the girls coming to my place.

  Your problem far too often, Garrett.

  "Huh?"

  You do not think. You emote. You act on that emotion in preference to reason. However, there was nothing in their minds to tie them in to the Weider matter. Which, of course, is no guarantee that those who sent them are equally innocent.

  "Aha! They knew about you."

  Those two did not. They knew nothing about you, either, except what they had been told. I believe you muffed this one, Garrett.

  I don't know about that. They probably wanted me to work. But I sighed. He really was right. And I definitely hate that. I hear about it forever. "I think I'll just go over to the brewery and—"

  Yes. You should do that. But not right away. Go later. After the night crew comes in. They will be the younger men who have the Cantard more freshly in mind. If there are human rights activists there, they are most likely to be found among the younger workers.

  What could I say? When he's right he's right. And he has been right a little too often lately. "All right. What're you going to suggest instead?" There would be something.

  See Captain Block. Ask him about The Call. Let fall some gentle intimation of the threat to Mr. Weider.

  Captain Westman Block runs the Guard, TunFaire's half-ass police force. The Guard is lame but more effective than the predecessor from which it evolved, the Watch, which existed primarily to absorb bribes to stay out of the way. The Watch still exists but only as a fire brigade.

  The reason the Guard works is a little guy who is part dwarf, a touch of several other things, and maybe an eighth human. His name is Relway. He's the ugliest man I've ever met. He's obsessed with law and order. His conversations all revolve around his New Order, by which he means the absolute rule of law. When I met him, on a rainy night not that long ago, he was a volunteer "auxiliary" helping Block's tiny serious-crimes section of the Watch. I said something unpleasant to Relway that night. He assured me that I ought to be less unpleasant because he was going to be an important fellow before long.

  His powers of prophecy were excellent.

  Prince Rupert created the Guard and installed Westman Block as its chief. Then Block sanctioned Relway. And Relway immediately put together a powerful and nasty secret police force consisting of people who thought his way. Offenders have been known to just vanish once they attract the notice of Relway's section.

  Probably no more than a thousand people know the section exists. He doesn't blow his own horn. And I'd bet there aren't more than a dozen people who can identify Relway by sight.

  I'm one of them. Sometimes that makes me nervous.

  That all rips through my mind whenever anyone mentions Block. I get the exact feeling Relway wants everybody to feel—that somebody is watching.

  Old Man Weider is one of TunFaire's leading subjects. He's a commoner but is rich and powerful and influential. He has friends in high places who are real friends simply because he is the kind of man he is. Block would take an extra step to protect him.

  Relway, being what he is, might take a few steps more if The Call was involved.

  "Maybe that's all I really need to do. Get the Guard on the case. Block has more resources."

  There is more going on.

  "Why am I not surprised to hear that?"

  Because you are, at last, becoming somewhat adept at reading people —though not yet at a conscious level. At that same shadow level both Miss Weider and Miss Nicholas fear that Ty Weider was not the recipient of the threat but its source.

  "I don't like the guy but I could be wrong about him. Nicks thinks he's got something going."

  Miss Nicholas is torn in many directions. I feel for that child. She does indeed think some good things, though. She has known Ty Weider as long as she has known Miss Alyx. She makes allowances because she knew the Ty Weider who existed before the Ty Weider who returned from the Cantard missing a leg. Have lunch, then see Captain Block.

  "Yes, Mom."

  Dumb move, Garrett.

  The Dead Man took the mental muzzle off the Goddamn Parrot. That freaking jungle chicken just stores it up when he's under control. It gushed.

  9

  Block's headquarters were inside the Al-Khar, TunFair
e's city prison. Handy, what with criminals being rounded up in gaggles lately. The place is huge, stark, cold, ugly, and badly in need of maintenance. It's a wonder prisoners don't escape by walking through the walls. Or by powdering the rusty bars in the infrequent windows. Ages ago some Hill family fattened up by cutting corners on construction, particularly in the choice of stone. Instead of a good Karentine limestone, available from quarries within a day's barge travel, somebody had supplied a soft snotty yellow-green stone that sucks up crud from the air, darkens, streaks, then flakes, leaving the exterior acned. The streets alongside the Al-Khar always boast a layer of detritus.

  The mortar is in worse shape than the stone. Luckily, the walls are real thick.

  I stopped, stunned, when I rounded a corner and saw the prison.

  Scaffolding was up. Some tuckpointing was under way. Some chemical cleansing was restoring the youth of the stone.

  Even clean that stone was butt-ugly.

  How were they financing the face-lift? Till recently TunFaire jailed hardly anybody so no provision had been made to help maintain the seldom-used prison.

  They'd had to evict squatters when Block moved in.

  Captain Block not only was in, he was willing to see me. Immediately.

  "You're a bureaucrat now, Block. Even if you haven't opened your eyes for fifteen years, you're supposed to be too busy to see somebody without an appointment. You'll set a precedent. You really live here? In jail?"

  "I'm single. I don't need much room."

  He seemed a little sad and a lot weary. He had shown fair political acumen getting the Guard created but, perhaps, didn't have the moral stamina to keep diverting frequent attempts to scuttle the rule of law.

  "You look more relaxed these days." Block's quarters definitely didn't match his standing in the community. Neither did his dress. He should have been decked out like an admiral with two hundred years of service, but he just didn't care.