Deadly Quicksilver Lies gf-7

by Glen Cook

  The prices were reasonable, too—for those not trying to support a one-man regiment in the habit of eating only when someone else was buying. I asked, "How come this place isn't swamped with customers?"

  Playmate awarded me one of his righteous, thoughtful looks. "Prejudice, Garrett."

  "Uh-hum?" It was testing time again. Playmate, who wanted to be a priest once, has to keep checking to make sure I stay more good guy than bad.

  Forewarned, sure he was going to zing me by telling me the place was run by ratmen—whom I dislike more than I dislike horses, with, admittedly, weaker cause—I was pleasantly surprised when he told me, "It's run by centaurs. A refugee family from the Cantard."

  "Where else?" Through a heroic effort I kept a straight face. "I can see how they might have trouble building a clientele." Centaurs aren't beloved. They'd long served Karenta's forces as auxiliaries in the Cantard. But when the mercenary Glory Mooncalled defected and proclaimed the Cantard an independent republic, every centaur tribe joined him. Chances were this family had fought Karenta till recently. When things fell apart down there, where did they run? Straight to the cities of Karenta, whose soldiers they'd been killing.

  I don't understand why they're welcomed. Sure, there's room in the economy, what with all the young men gone for soldiers. But all those young men are going to be coming home. Venageta has been driven from the Cantard. Glory Mooncalled has been crushed. Sort of.

  Centaurs. Bloody hell.

  I kept my thoughts to myself, shifted subjects, told Playmate what I was doing for Maggie Jenn. I didn't overlook such embarrassing adventures as my unexpected visit to the Bledsoe. Playmate wasn't Winger. He wouldn't spread it all over town. He smiled gently and forebore the opportunity to score a remark on the state of my mental health. That's why I love the guy. None of my other friends could have resisted.

  He asked, "What do you need from me?"

  "Need? Nothing."

  "You come, brought me out here, fed me, and filled me up with beer, Garrett. You got to want something."

  "That stuff used to be funny, Playmate. About a thousand years ago. Ragging me for the fun, I can go along with that. For a while. But it's gotten real old. I wish you guys would find a new song to sing."

  "You mean that?"

  Butter wouldn't have melted in my mouth. "Damned straight." I was getting what I needed already, an uncritical ear and a break from loneliness.

  "You just don't realize," he muttered. Louder, "In that case, maybe I can help."

  "Huh?"

  "I know a little something about the witchcraft scene. I have clients who belong to that world."

  I was surprised. His religion, a self-defined offshoot of Orthodoxy, doesn't hold much truck with witches. Which doesn't make a lot of sense when you think about how big sorcery and demonism are in this burg. But I have a suspicion that religion isn't supposed to make sense. If it did, there'd be no buyers.

  This was Playmate showing off his tolerance again.

  "All right. I'll take you up on it. There any new covens around?"

  "Of course. In a city this size, there are always covens forming and falling apart. Human nature, being what it is, there are always egos getting bruised and—"

  "I understand. You heard of any in particular? Any that have been recruiting young women?"

  "No."

  "Damn! So, that's that. Well, then, tell me about Maggie Jenn. Morley tells me you've got the skinny on the royals."

  "Tell me what you already know."

  I highlighted.

  He told me, "There isn't much I can add. She did have a daughter. I thought the girl died but evidently not. Nobody's proved it, but Maggie probably was a pricy pro before Teodoric took her up. Under a different name, of course. Morley was wrong about her being in exile. She does spend most of her time on the Isle of Paise, but that's preference. She spends a month each year in the Hill place. If she doesn't use it, she loses it. She does keep her head down when she's in town. She doesn't want her enemies to get too unhappy."

  I nodded, understanding. I signaled for more of that excellent house brew. I had enough inside me already that sounds had buzzes around their edges, but that superman Playmate hadn't yet stumbled over his tongue.

  "Grange Cleaver," I said. "The Rainmaker. What about him?"

  "Been a while since I've heard of him. Curious that he's back in town."

  "Maybe. I think it has something to do with Maggie Jenn."

  "You be careful of him, Garrett. He's crazy. Blood crazy. They called him the Rainmaker because he left so many weeping widows around. He was big into torture."

  "Just your average, everyday psycho next door. What was between him and Maggie Jenn?"

  "I can't swear. From the little I've heard, he could've been her pimp."

  "Her pimp?" I tried it out. "Her pimp." That had a feel to it, all right.

  I dropped some money in front of Playmate, for the house. "Enjoy. I'm going to go put my thinking cap on."

  Playmate divested himself of various remarks of the sort that have become fashionable among my acquaintances. I ignored him.

  That last piece of news put a whole different weight on everything. Unless I was guessing way wrong.

  It could happen.

  27

  Once bitten, twice shy? How often have I gotten nipped because I don't have the sense to get out of this racket? Often enough that I no longer wander around without tools to defend myself. Often enough that I stay alert once somebody starts getting physical.

  Despite a few ales too many, I spied the ambush on Macunado—mainly because the night traffic was missing. The denizens of my fair city can smell trouble at a thousand yards, like small game when a troll is prowling the woods.

  So it was as rowdy as a desert ruin around my place. It was so quiet I had trouble picking out the ambushers.

  I finally caught the stir of a shadow in a breezeway across Macunado. There was no way to sneak up from where I was, so I retreated, took a long way.

  All of a sudden I felt cheerful, the prospect of cracking heads making me high. That wasn't my way. The case was getting to me—if it was a case. I wasn't convinced.

  I came at the guy from behind, singing a ratman working song. Far as I know it's the only working song they have, so few of them actually hold jobs—

  Between the fake accent and fake drunken singing, my man was way off guard. He cussed me instead of getting set for trouble.

  I staggered up and popped him between the eyes with my headthumper. He said "Gleep!" and stumbled backward, his knees watery. I grabbed his shirt, pushed him down onto his knees, slipped behind him, and laid the length of my stick under his chin. "All right, bruno, I lean back sudden and you find out what it'll be like the day you hang." I gave a little jerk to make my point. Also to keep him from getting too much air. He wouldn't be interested in much else if I kept him on short rations. "Get the point?"

  He got the point. He grunted cooperatively—after I'd cut him off for a while.

  "Excellent. Now here's the part where you tell me who sent you and how many buddies you have and where they're hanging out."

  Give the guy credit. He was loyal to his pals. You don't see a lot of that in street thugs. He made me take him to the brink of the big sleep before he gave in. That was right after I whispered, "I've always found that the best way to run a bluff is don't be bluffing. You don't help me out here I'll just hunt me down another guy."

  I was bluffing.

  He made noises indicating that I'd smooth-talked him into cooperating. I eased off on the stick. "Maybe you better talk on the exhale. Or I might get edgy. You guys messing with me last night got my dander up."

  Wham! I quick thumped him for thinking about what he was thinking of trying. "So who sent you?" I went back to choking him.

  "Cleafer," he gasped. "Guy named Cleafer."

  "Surprise, surprise," I muttered. "He happen to say why?"

  Grunt and choke. Meant no, and who gave a damn why anywa
y? This Cleafer was paying real money.

  "How may pals you got with you?"

  Seven. Seven? "I'm flattered. This Cleafer must have a high opinion of me." I have a high opinion of me, but my enemies don't usually agree.

  My man made sounds indicating he couldn't have agreed less. I took that to mean that he was recovering too fast. I popped him again.

  I get less nice as I get older.

  We chewed the fat till I knew where his buddies were hiding and I understood their grand strategy, which was to round me up and drag me off to their boss's hideout. Friendly Grange Cleaver, pre-owned property salesman, wanted to have a chat.

  "Yeah. I like that idea. We'll do that. Only maybe we won't stick too close to the original scheme."

  I popped the guy again, hard enough to put him to sleep. He was going to have a headache worse than the one his gang had given me.

  Funny. I didn't feel bad about that.

  So I went around pounding the stuffings out of guys till thumping heads no longer made me feel better. I wondered what folks on the shadow side would say when word got around. After the usual exaggerations, it might start worrying the kind of people who get in my way.

  Nobody would believe it, probably. Everybody thinks I use Morley Dotes for all my heavy work.

  I rounded up the smallest thug, a bit of a guy so tiny he had to be a breed. I slung him over my shoulder and headed for the Joy House.

  Sometimes you can use a helping hand.

  28

  Morley tousled the little fellow's hair. "He's mad, Garrett. This is one you'd better not leave behind." We were in Morley's office upstairs at the Joy House. The veggie killers were rioting downstairs.

  "And after I decided to give him a break. Any of those guys related to you, Stubby? Your lover or something?"

  The little breed glared.

  "I like this guy." Morley frowned at Spud, who was sizing the prisoner up for some painful burns.

  "What?" the kid demanded.

  "He's still officially a guest."

  "Sure. And if I was here with a guy who'd just offed my whole gang but me I think I'd be a little more disturbed. Look at that fool. He's already sizing us up for some pain when it's him that's in the shit."

  "Narcisio! Language!"

  "He's got a point, Morley," I said. "The clown ought to be more scared."

  "He's going to be, Garrett. It's just that he's from out of town."

  I agreed. "How can you tell?" I wanted to see if his thinking paralleled mine.

  "Because he isn't scared. Look, now he's got an idea who has him. He's starting to tense up. They didn't tell him anything when they gave him the job. They just put money in his pocket and told him to help with a snatch."

  "I do believe you're right." I tried out a ferocious smile, like the guys from the violent ward would wear if they were sent out to play.

  Morley was right. The little guy had heard of Morley Dotes even if he hadn't heard of me. He squeaked. Maybe Winger was right about reputation's tool value.

  "I do believe he has a notion to deal," Morley observed.

  "So," I said. "You want to be lucky number seven, the one who got away, or just another stiff?"

  "Lucky seven sounds great to me."

  "Look at that. He kept his sense of humor, Morley. I think that's great. All right, Lucky, what was the plan?" I told Morley, "Be a shame to let it go to waste."

  Morley flashed a humorless grin. "Best thinking you've done in years." He was ready to go. I'd been surprised by how quickly he'd agreed to help. I recalled the glances between him and Sarge and Puddle. Was there old business between them and the Rainmaker?

  I worry when Morley gets agreeable. I always end up getting jobbed.

  "How much are you ready to spend, Garrett?"

  I considered my agreement with Maggie Jenn, then the size of my advance. "Not much. You have something in mind?"

  "Recall the Rainmaker's reputation. We could use some specialists to calm him down if he gets excited."

  "Specialists?" Here comes a sales pitch. "Like who?"

  "The Roze triplets." Naturally. Perennially underemployed relatives.

  Specialists I wouldn't call them, but those guys could calm people down. Doris and Marsha were about sixteen feet tall and could lay out a mammoth with one punch. Part giant, part troll, the only way to beat them was to booby-trap their resolve with barrels of beer. They'd drop anything to get drunk.

  The third triplet was an obnoxious little geek barely Morley's size good for nothing but translating for his brothers.

  "No, Morley. This is a freak show already. I just want to talk to the guy, find out why he's messing with me."

  Morley stared at Lucky. "Garrett, Garrett, just when I thought you were developing sense. You don't talk to the Rainmaker. All he understands is raw power. Either you can kick his ass or he can kick yours. Unless he's changed his spots in a big way."

  I grimaced.

  "What?"

  "My budget is pretty tight."

  "Big news, big news."

  "Hey!"

  "There you go getting cheap again, Garrett. You want to save money? Don't bug the Rainmaker. Just lock your door and snuggle up to your moneybags and hope he can't think of a way to get to you. After tonight, he'll be trying for real."

  I knew that. Cleaver sounded like he was all ego and no restraint. All the reason he needed I'd already provided.

  What a dummy, Garrett. Your troubles are all your own fault. You should try a little harder to get along.

  I mused, "How did he know I was out of the Bledsoe?"

  Morley and Spud perked up, smelling a tale not yet told. I had to yield enough sordid details to get them off my back. Which was way more than I wanted anyone to know, really. "I get any razzing back off the street I'm going to know where to lay the blame."

  "Yes." Morley gave me his nasty smile. "Winger." That smile turned diabolical. He saw he'd guessed right. I hadn't thought about who knew the story already.

  What Winger knew could spread from river to wall in a night. She liked to hang out with the guys, get drunk and swap tall tales. The story would grow into a monster before she was done with it.

  I said, "You really feel like we need the Rozes, get the Rozes."

  "You gave me a better idea."

  "Well?"

  "Use those clowns you have stashed at your place. Make them earn their keep. You said the big one owes Cleaver anyway."

  "That's an idea. Lucky, what direction are we going to head?"

  Morley added, "Keeping in mind that I'll be a lot deadlier a lot quicker than Cleaver if Garrett is disappointed."

  "West." The little fellow's croak contained undertones of frightened whine. I didn't blame him. He was in the proverbial between of the rock and the hard place.

  "West is good," I said. "West means we can drop by my place on the way."

  I assumed Lucky's buddies would have cleared off.

  Morley and his bunch looked unexcited by this opportunity. They're villains, though, and no villain in his right mind got within mind reading range of the Dead Man. However strong my assurances that he was asleep.

  "His bark is worse than his bite," I said.

  "Right," Sarge sneered. Puddle and Morley backed him up. Spud took that as his cue to ape his elders. I gave up.

  29

  I found Ivy in the small front room arguing with the Goddamn Parrot. The Goddamn Parrot was making more sense. Beer and brandy odors were potent. Which had drunk more? Who knows? The Goddamn Parrot would suck it up as long as you let him.

  Ivy seemed determined to clean me out before he got kicked out. I told him, "You'd better ease up or there won't be anything left for breakfast."

  Ivy looked distressed. You could see him struggling to light a fire under the pot of his thoughts. I doubted he'd get them simmering. He did seem to grasp the notion that my alcohol reserves were finite.

  "Where's Slither?" The big guy was nowhere in sight. There was a racket from up
stairs, but nothing human could be making that.

  I could see through the open kitchen doorway. The view set me to talking to myself. Friend Slither was trying to do to my larder what Ivy was doing to my drinking supply.

  So much for good deeds.

  They start preaching at you when you're barely old enough to walk. But what the hell happens when you do try to help your fellow man? You get it up the poop chute every time. Without grease.

  Where do the preachers get their crazy ideas? How many cheeks do they have to turn? How come they aren't hobbling around with bandages on their butts?

  "Where's Slither?" I demanded again.

  Ivy answered with a slow shrug. I don't think he understood anything but my tone. He started trying to explain Orthodox transcircumstantiation to the Goddamn Parrot. The Goddamn Parrot made remarks with which I agreed.

  I commenced a quest for Slither. Snores from above seemed worth investigation.

  Slither was sprawled across Dean's bed, on his back, his snores like the bellows of mating thunder-lizards. Awe held me immobile. The man couldn't be human. He had to be a demigod. He was producing an orchestra of snores, humming and roaring and snorting and sputtering. He seemed capable of combining every known species of snore. All in the same breath.

  When I could move again I went to my own room. I hate to disturb an artist at work. I shut my door, went to the window, checked Morley and his crew and the ever astonishing traffic on Macunado. Where could all those creatures be going? What drove them to be out at this hour? Was just my neighborhood in a ferment? I couldn't recall seeing as much traffic anywhere else—though the whole city seemed crowded these days.

  I could hear Slither's every snore. I'd hear every snore plainly for however long he remained in my house.

  So much for doing good deeds.

  Morely gave the boys a glance and said nothing. He did shake his head. Even I now wondered if they hadn't made it all up about their service. Especially Ivy. He had the Goddamned Parrot on his shoulder. It mixed its finest gutter observations with declarations of, "Awrrgh, matey! We be ferocious pirates." That naturally drew a lot of attention. Just the thing you want when you're out to sneak up on a guy calls himself the Rainmaker.