Faded Steel Heat gf-9

by Glen Cook

His nose rolled up instantly. "What in the world?... Are you aware of the state of your apparel?"

  "Plenty. I was headed over here. I got ambushed in the stable. I'll want to talk that over with the boss, too. But first, why don't I go around back, shuck out of all this horse flavoring, and wash down? If you've got somebody who can bring me a towel and something else to wear."

  "Thoughtful of you, Garrett. Take care you don't fall afoul of any pigs or cattle on your journey."

  "Careful is my new middle name."

  The Goddamn Parrot decided that was his cue to laugh. He sounded like a donkey braying.

  I strolled around to the tradesman's gate. I waited there for ten minutes. I started talking to myself, or maybe thinking out loud to the Goddamn Parrot. Gilbey himself finally showed up to open the gate and let me into a large paved courtyard that would have been the shipping point had the mansion actually become a brewery.

  "You get lost backstairs? Or are you just the only one home who'll risk—"

  "I ran into Alyx. I had to discourage her from supervising your ablutions personally."

  That might have been interesting. "Must be this glamorous life I lead."

  "I wouldn't get too interested in Alyx."

  "Me neither. Max is my bread and butter." Oh, did it hurt to say that and actually try to mean it. The more I thought about how wonderfully Alyx had grown up the more—

  "And I understand you're taken."

  "Awk!" Chuckles in parrotese.

  "This bird and me, we're a hot number. Nothing is going to come between us."

  "I expect Miss Tate will be devastated."

  Manvil is business all the time. He took himself and life and everything else much too seriously. "You should relax, Gilbey. Take a night off. Go out somewhere where nobody knows you, get fucked up and party your ass off."

  Gilbey's eyes widened a skillionth of an inch. "Sound advice, no doubt. It's certainly done you well. I'll consider it."

  "Go after it the way you did when you were young and in the service."

  "I was in the Judge Advocate's office."

  "Wouldn't you know." He probably prosecuted guys for smiling on the job.

  "I don't recall ever having criticized the way you live your life, Mr. Garrett."

  "Ouch!" Despite his obvious disapproval. "Point taken, Mr. Gilbey. And that makes you a treasure. Everyone else is critical, including my partner, my housekeeper, my girlfriend, my best friend, even this ludicrous buzzard."

  The Goddamn Parrot cracked an eyelid and went to all the trouble of interjecting an "Awk" as bitterly cold as any corpse.

  For a second I thought Gilbey might crack a smile.

  He didn't but I knew how to get to him now. With the unanticipated. With the kind of humor that blindsides you with the unlikely.

  "A troll, an ogre, and a barbarian walk into a tavern. The elephant behind the bar says, ‘We don't serve—' "

  "Mice are never amusing."

  "You've heard it." I hadn't finished the setup.

  "I hear them all. Kittyjo collects them. The more off-color the better. I have to listen to them. Here we are. I had several buckets of hot water brought around. Use them as you will."

  "Can I ask you something, Gilbey?"

  He waited, neither offering permission nor denying it.

  "You're a right guy. You're Max's pal. His sidekick. But half the time you talk like some kind of butler or something."

  "We are what we are, Garrett. You should find soap, towels, and fresh clothing inside. Rinse down the floor when you're done. Courtesy to the next bather. When you're ready, meet us in Max's study."

  "Thanks. For everything and whatever."

  I stepped into the place he had made available. The floor was zinc. So were the walls. The staff were allowed to bathe there. Horses got scrubbed down there, too.

  A selection of clothing, soap, a brush, and three steaming buckets all sat on a bench. A doorway without a door in it opened into a chamber about five feet by nine, also floored and walled with zinc. The floor sloped to a central drain. A bizarre apparatus consisting of a barrel and lead pipes hung overhead. You filled the tank by climbing a ladder in the outer room.

  I figured it out because it resembled a contraption we'd built from a hardtack barrel in the islands, using bamboo for pipes.

  I scrubbed up as good as I have in years.

  The clothes were not the sort you'll usually find on one of Mama Garrett's boys—mainly because Mom and all her boys together couldn't afford them. Nor were they a choice I would've selected, given a choice. They were too dressy, formal, dull, too dark, more suited to the funeral racket. Also, there was a waistcoat. And ruffles. Not a plethora of ruffles. Not ruffles like you see when Morley dresses up. But ruffles.

  Ruffles aren't me.

  The Goddamn Parrot resumed station on my shoulder. He made no effort to control his snickers.

  The clothing smelled like it had been stored. Maybe it had belonged to one of the Weider boys. In happier times. Not Ty, though. He was smaller than me. Probably the only one who hadn't come home. I couldn't remember his name.

  The tools were there so I shaved. I don't know why I didn't seize the opportunity to cut the Goddamn Parrot's throat. It was one in a thousand. And nobody was looking.

  19

  Old Man Weider stands about two hairs over five and a half feet tall but he has a much bigger presence. He's a round-faced, ruddy-skinned guy with close-cropped white hair, most of which has migrated to the sides of his head, I suppose to escape the direct impact of sunshine and rain. His mustache is doing much better, thank you. Maybe it gets more fertilizer. It's a huge gray bush with flecks of yesterday's brown still hanging on stubbornly.

  Weider smiles readily but his smiles seldom take up residence in his eyes. It's like he's really glad to see you but the moment you're actually there he starts calculating all the angles.

  He grabbed my hand, pumped it. His fingers were plump little sausages. He grinned as he said, "I hear you had an adventure over in my stables." He has remarkably good teeth for his age. "Ty sent Ike Khame over. He told us what happened while you were cleaning up."

  "Ah. An adventure. That don't capture it. I was lucky Ty and Lance turned up when they did."

  "Why?"

  "What?"

  "Sorry. Sit down. You look good in those clothes. They were Tad's. I suppose you guessed. Keep them. In fact, Manvil, tell Genord to have Tad's whole wardrobe shipped over to Garrett's place. You don't have any objection, do you?" This was the boss. Chatter chatter, off in seven unpredictable directions.

  "No."

  "Sit down. Sit down. You want something to drink? We've got beer. Or beer. Or you can have beer." He worked some change on that joke every time I visited. Which wasn't often. Our relationship may be based on absence makes the heart grown fonder. "Why would anyone jump you?"

  "Good question. I don't know. Two were your employees. Ty said he'd get an answer. They all carried armbands from some rights gang. Their emblem wasn't one I've ever seen before."

  Gilbey brought a schooner of beer, a Weider Dark Reserve with a strong yeast flavor. The very beer the goats in heaven give instead of milk. He said, "It's spooky, seeing you in those clothes."

  Weider agreed. "If we got a surgeon to cut that growth off your shoulder, you'd look a lot like Tad." The old pain rose into Weider's eyes. It was the pain we all know because we've all lost somebody to the war. I took a long drink and tried to forget my brother. My father doesn't hurt because I don't remember him.

  Weider didn't have that solace. Nor that of beer. He drinks nothing. He stays away because he loves the stuff too much.

  Gilbey drew a mug. He would nurse it all evening. "I don't get out much anymore, Garrett," he said as he settled into the chair he always used, not far from Max, where he could scoot over and get into a cutthroat game of dominoes when the mood hit. "I'm out of touch with popular culture. Are stuffed birds some new fad?"

  "A present from a friend." I
let it go at that.

  With my luck the Dead Man was napping and catching nothing through that hideous jungle chicken.

  Weider mused, "So Alyx went to you."

  I nodded.

  "I didn't send her."

  "So she said. But she hinted that you wouldn't run me off if I turned up."

  "It's good that you came. You've already generated evidence that something is going on. This cancer people call a human rights movement. It has penetrated the brewery."

  "Alyx said somebody's trying to extort money on behalf of The Call."

  Weider seemed surprised. He glanced at Gilbey. "Manvil?"

  "News to me." Gilbey sat forward in his chair, alert.

  "She said Ty told her. Tinnie and Nicks backed her up. A couple of brewmasters supposedly saw it happen."

  "They did? The Call? Nicks?"

  "Miss Nicholas. Ty's fiancé. It doesn't sound like The Call's style."

  "Absolutely not. Marengo North English has more wealth than any three men deserve."

  Interesting. Weider should be North English's equal in that. "I'd gladly relieve the man of some of the responsibility."

  Weider chuckled. "No doubt. But his wealth is why The Call is the biggest rights group."

  Gilbey amended, "His wealth and his connections. Most of his social peers share his prejudices."

  Max said, "I don't. Even though I consider him my friend. He wouldn't try something that underhanded. He'd come ask for support."

  I said, "He might have some renegade troops." I'd had an unpleasant encounter with a Call splinter group not that long ago.

  "Plausible." Gilbey took my schooner, restored it to a happier estate, then added, "The men in the stable weren't from The Call."

  Weider told me, "Ike seemed certain that Ty had made sure of that."

  "Oh."

  "Tomorrow night I'm hosting a gala where Ty and Giorgi will announce their engagement. Everybody who is anybody will be here. Including Marengo North English and Bondurant Altoona. And you, I hope. Won't you join us?"

  "Uh... Me? Socializing with socialites?" I've done that, mostly in shady places, street corners, alleyways, taverns where their own kind won't notice them rubbing elbows with a disreputable character like me.

  "You'll manage, Garrett. Just bring your manners. Pretend the guests are all beautiful women and you have charm to waste. Get him an invitation, Manvil. You'll come in like any other guest, Garrett. The security people won't know who you are. Not right away."

  I must have let another expression get out and go scampering around my face. Maybe I need to hit the Landing and hang out in the gambling dens until I get my betting face back.

  "I didn't have you do security because you're only one man, Garrett."

  That was hopping on a crippled leg but I ignored it. I accepted a fancy folded paper from Gilbey, asked Weider, "So why did you send Manvil to get me?"

  "An impulse. Possibly driven by an unconscious surge of common sense. I wanted to give you that invitation. Because I suddenly realized that by shutting you out I was putting myself entirely in the hands of amateurs and strangers at a time when I was going to have a house full of outsiders, many of whom I couldn't call friends even during a wedding celebration. And I wanted to find out why you suddenly decided to show an interest in the brewery. Just when things are showing signs of getting weird. Call it my old-age paranoia suddenly flaring up."

  I looked at Gilbey. Manvil thinks much less of me than Max does. "You approve?"

  "I do." But his gout was nipping him, or he was having a problem with gas pains.

  "You have other troubles?"

  Max said, "I expect to find out for sure tomorrow night. I mean to flush the snakes out of the grass."

  There would be a few of those amongst the bourgeois robber moguls likely to be invited to a Weider soiree. Vipers the size of the crocodile killers we used to cut up and feed to the saber-toothed cats in the islands...

  Gilbey volunteered, "Alyx wanted you invited, too."

  The little darling. "Huh?"

  "On behalf of Miss Tate. But also because she's wary of snakes herself."

  Tinnie seemed to be wriggling her cute little tail right back into the center of my life. And I didn't mind at all. "I'll see if I can't find something to wear."

  "Manvil will have Genord make sure Tad's things gets to your house in time. Please avoid the stables until after the affair."

  "I think I can resist the urge to visit them."

  Grinning, Gilbey suggested, "If you arrive early, you can critique our arrangements and watch the villains—make that guests—arrive."

  I pretended to be businesslike. "A reasonable plan, gentlemen."

  "Awk! We'll be here."

  "We? I'll sell your feathers first, you glorified duster."

  Weider chuckled. He said, "At least one of you ought to show up."

  "One of us will. Me. The one with half a brain." I got up. I must have moved too fast. The floor got awfully unsteady suddenly.

  Couldn't have been that little dribble of beer.

  20

  "Will you quit stomping around?" The Goddamn Parrot kept getting more and more restless. I hoped that didn't mean he wanted to exploit me the way pigeons traditionally do statues of forgotten generals. I'd seen enough animal by-product for one day.

  Weider's personal sitting room was in a corner of the front of his mansion, on what was called the second floor despite being only slightly above street level. The ground on which the mansion stood sloped. In back you could walk straight out but in front you climbed fifteen steps to reach the front door, then descended half a dozen back to street level. So the first floor lies below actual ground level almost everywhere. Only the rear of the house, including the kitchen, family dining room, and back stairs sees daily use. Most of it is reserved for entertainment.

  Even the second floor mainly serves business and entertainment purposes. Weider rules his empire from there. The family lives higher still, on the third and fourth floors. Servants who live on the premises do so in nooks and crannies and under the eaves.

  I didn't envy them.

  I was about to head down the grand staircase to the first floor when a remote scream stopped me. I glanced back. Gilbey stood in the doorway of Weider's study, silhouetted. He shrugged, pointed upward.

  I clomped downstairs muttering, "Tom is still with us." I took several deep breaths crossing the pink-marble floor so when I got to the steps I could bound up to the front door with the spring of a misspent youth. The Goddamn Parrot never stopped prancing on my shoulder.

  Max had three sons: Tad, Tom, and Ty. Tom and Ty made it back from the Cantard but Tom left his mind and soul behind.

  Rich or poor, we have that in common. We've been to the Cantard. And we've lost somebody. And none of us who survived came home unchanged.

  But the war is over. Karenta has triumphed. The Cantard's fabulous mines now serve the sorcerers, who are our real masters. Karenta is the most powerful kingdom in the world. We should be proud.

  This month, for the first time in three generations, the Crown conscripted no one.

  We won. And because we did our world is falling apart.

  Boy, am I glad we didn't lose.

  It seemed like a mile to the door. My heels clacked hollowly. Their sound echoed off the walls. Preparations were under way for the party but so far only to the extent that the hall had been stripped of clutter like carpets, furniture, portraits of imaginary forbears, old armor, crossed swords and pikes, and most anything that could become a weapon after the weather turned drunken.

  There was no one watching the front door. The old man's paranoia couldn't run too deep. I clomped up and let myself out while making a mental note to suggest a less relaxed security posture.

  I surveyed the neighborhood from the porch. Daylight was a ghost of its former gaudy self. "You got to dump, you'd better go do it now, you runt turkey."

  The bird squawked, said, "I wanted you outside so I could
talk."

  The Dead Man. Of course. I knew we were headed this direction as soon as he started insisting that I take the little vulture everywhere. Not only would he use that ugly feather duster to spy on me, he meant to nag me like he was my mother.

  I muttered, "Bird, you are doomed! Doomed!"

  "What?"

  "You've got me talking to myself. What do you want?"

  "You need to come home. We have company only you can handle."

  "Damn." What did that mean? I didn't ask because he wouldn't tell me. His excuse would be that the bird could talk only so much before he injured his throat, a limitation I've never witnessed when that vulture—or the Dead Man—had something to say that I didn't want to hear. "Want to name names?"

  "No. Don't waste time."

  I'll strangle them both. It's got to take more effort to deny me than to say a name.

  I took the direct route, which turned out to be a poor choice.

  Grand Avenue from the Landing south to the Dream Quarter was choked with prohuman demonstrators. They were mostly younger than me. It didn't seem possible that there could be so many, that they could all belong right here instead of scattered amongst a hundred towns and cities and a hundred thousand farms. But, of course, resentment of nonhumans is an ancient exercise. We had great and vicious wars in ages past. And today plenty of men older than me, secure in their trade or employment, are as intolerant as any youngster with no prospects.

  I hit Grand where six hundred guys from The Call were marching back and forth practicing their manuals at arms using quarterstaves and wooden swords instead of pikes and sharp steel. Their apparel was moderately uniform. Their shields matched. Most wore light leather helmets. They were true believers in the highest cause and they had faced deadly enemies on the plains of war. This night would turn nasty if some genius on the Hill decided the army should disperse the demonstrators.

  Any troops sent in faced demobilization themselves. An interesting complication.

  I relaxed, awaited a chance to cross when I wouldn't inconvenience any nut. You don't want to irritate somebody who has several thousand of his best friends handy. Not unless you're armed with the headbone of an ass.