Wicked Bronze Ambition gp-14

by Glen Cook

  She asked, “Why should I worry? You’re the target.”

  John Stretch agreed. “I put the word out to my people when I heard about Strafa.” He was yet another soul that my sweetie had conquered.

  John Stretch is handy to know. His people go everywhere, doing the dirtiest work, and people pay no attention. They should worry about protecting their secrets.

  “Nothing?”

  “Not yet. There is a hole in the tapestry. Many on the Hill would like to know who attacked her. None of them do know, or even have strong suspicions.”

  “That’s odd.”

  Singe added, “I get the feeling that they are not planning anything, they just want to know if there is a danger to them.”

  That made sense. There have been doctrine-driven insurrections directed at sorcerers before.

  Soon I was feeling full enough, mellow enough, and safe enough to collect myself and go to the Dead Man’s room-after a side trip to my old office, the broom closet next to the space Singe used, where I put on one of my ratty old sweaters. It can get cold in there with His Nibs.

  “Any thoughts?” I asked as I adjusted a chair so I could settle comfortably with my pint. “I see Penny is still learning her oils.” The girl is a talented artist. Old Bones does what he can to help her develop her skills.

  His pet stray is one of few females, of any species, that he not only tolerates but actively likes.

  You have someone worried. More likely, several someones, probably all determined to win the Tournament of Swords.

  “I have the magical skills of a large boulder. As long as all I have to do is sit there, I’m golden. I’m a powerhouse.”

  It occurs to me that Strafa may not have been attacked for the reasons that we have assumed.

  “Huh?”

  She was indeed, Furious Tide of Light and the likely Algarda Champion, but suppose she was eliminated instead in a fool’s effort to make sure that you do not enter the game. An ill-reasoned effort that has fired a raging blowback already.

  “My head is running slow tonight. Elucidate your reasoning. Pretend I’m a dim five.”

  Damn! I whipped a flashy word on him and it went completely to waste. Of course, his being able to tramp around inside my head whenever he feels like, he always sees my best stuff coming.

  Consider the response to events. Since Strafa’s demise the Civil Guard, the Syndicate, the rat people nation, the Algarda family and its allies have all mobilized to hunt the assassins. I submit that it may have been such actions that the assassination was intended to forestall.

  “Oh.” I got it. Sort of.

  Somebody might think the Tournament of Swords game would be rigged against them if I was Strafa’s Mortal Companion. My connections could give her an intelligence edge. Take her out and those resources no longer mattered.

  “I can see somebody with an upper-class attitude thinking that way. Somebody committed to the premise of the tournament and expecting a win. But it wouldn’t be somebody who knows me because I wouldn’t buy into the tournament in the first place.”

  Indeed. At the moment it appears unlikely that the tournament will occur. After the embarrassment those men suffered. .

  “Yes?” There had been more than one embarrassment, I thought. That doll-child had toyed with me, then had gone her way with ease.

  Of course, however clever she was, she couldn’t remain unseen by all the eyes that would be watching for her now. She would be identified. She would be taken out of the game. Gently, of course. I wouldn’t put up with anybody attacking children in my name.

  We shall have to come back to this later. We are about to have company.

  Damn. I had been hoping to explore his thinking about the girl who had attacked me in the cemetery.

  27

  Company proved to be Barate Algarda, Kevans, Kyoga Stornes, and one of the Machtkess girls, all of whom arrived in Shadowslinger’s coach. The wicked old witch did not come with them.

  She had an excuse. Barate explained, “She had an apoplectic breakdown.”

  It sounds like it may have been a stroke.

  We settled in Singe’s office. Dean served tea. Lady Tara Chayne and Kyoga were pale and severely stressed by the company, though they didn’t know Belinda or John Stretch. They just couldn’t be comfortable in a situation where rat people were not only present but were equals-and maybe even the smartest people in the room.

  Why hadn’t Barate warned them?

  He did.

  “Got it.” Naturally, several people wondered why I would chat with the air.

  Mr. Algarda did not know that Pound Humility would be here. He did tell them about Singe. They did not believe him.

  I sensed some serious disgruntlement on his side of the hallway. Something was not what he wanted it to be, either.

  They are all wearing those silver hair nets.

  So what? People have worn those to the house, trying to keep him out of their heads, since Kevans and Kip Prose thought them up. They don’t work. Not for long, anyway. Old Bones always finds a way around them.

  These are working quite well, below the surface. If they conduct their business quickly, they will be gone before I find a workaround.

  Interesting.

  They would argue that they did not want the Dead Man to have unrestricted access to the insides of their heads, which wasn’t unreasonable. The problem is, no one believes he will stick to peeking only where he is invited, an attitude not based on real-world evidence.

  My racket has taught me that most people judge others by the way they think themselves. Claims otherwise are tactics and deception. Villains know we’re all exactly as black hearted as them. Naive pacifist vegetarians are sure that everyone else really would rather sit down and talk it out.

  There is a bell curve of character from irredeemably vile to blind romantic idealism. The predators on the dark side feed on folks from the other, confident that they deserve it for their idiot outlook.

  Which would seem to be inconsistent with the conviction that everyone thinks exactly the way they do. But if you brought that up, the villains would give you a blank stare and fail to grasp your point.

  This explains why the world needs us smug-ass sheepdog types from a shade to the bleak side of the median point on the curve.

  Thank Singe for that poindexter imagery.

  “Why would she have a breakdown?” I asked.

  “Anger. Word came, I don’t know how, that the Algardas are in the tournament, like it or not, and Kevans is now your Mortal Companion.”

  The girl had been a zombie since she arrived. Now I knew why.

  “What?” Why hadn’t Old Bones warned me? “Screw that. But how can that be?”

  “Simple. The Operators decided that since Strafa was attacked prematurely, they were free to change up on us. We’re still in. You see why Mother was upset.”

  “And then some. I might do some changing up myself, by means of cranial redesign, once I find these Operators.”

  Remain calm. Do not say anything more. I believe this is extremely important.

  He has me trained. Despite my inclination to rage, I put it away.

  The others may have received similar suggestions. Neither John Stretch, Belinda, Morley, nor Singe said a word, though questions could have fallen like heavy snow.

  There was some Dead Man gamesmanship afoot. He was hoping to maneuver someone into doing something they did not want to do.

  Exactly.

  Not particularly comforting. Most times, someone turns out to be me.

  Curiously, Kevans has the most accessible mind. Ironic, inasmuch as she designed and keeps upgrading the hair nets. Her father is almost as accessible. He is sure that Shadowslinger’s episode was not calculated to avoid this visit. He is close to being paralyzed by dread that it may be worse than the physician reported.

  That wouldn’t be good. We couldn’t have that darkness, as a looming threat, missing from our quiver.

  Barate said, “Y
ou did ask us to come see your partner, Garrett.”

  “I did, hoping he would have access to your minds. It’s finding things that you don’t know you know, and the connections between them, that makes him so valuable. Closed up the way you are with those nets, you may as well not have come.”

  Kevans was startled. Frightened even.

  Had she really thought that we didn’t know?

  Yes. Really. I did my best to keep it from being obvious.

  My bad, giving things away, here.

  Me at my age still having trouble thinking things through beforehand.

  I didn’t expect anybody to shed their protection. I wanted them thinking about whatever it was that they really wanted to hide. Old Bones could skim those thoughts off the surfaces of their minds. But Barate began untangling the net that had been so artfully installed in his hair.

  Old Bones touched me lightly, approving my tactics, offering suggestions, then noting, This one is deadly serious about this.

  You don’t get a lot of tonal information from the Dead Man’s communications. There was plenty in that, though.

  I asked Barate, “Did Constance have any thoughts about who the Operators might be?”

  Algarda was startled. The same question must have occurred to him.

  I needed not pursue that now that the mesh was off.

  Kevans began removing her net.

  Garrett, you smooth talker, you. Look at this. All these people who swim in seas of secrets taking a leap of faith because of the murder of a woman they all loved.

  I will not betray the trust they have offered me, even to you. Nor to you, Singe. Gossip and speculate as you will. I shall neither confirm nor deny.

  That made his position clear to them, too.

  I told my father-in-law, “I got the impression that she had someone in mind but wanted to test her suspicions before she said anything.”

  Tara Chayne started trying to remove her hair net. That got ugly fast. She was wearing a partial wig with hair extensions. The mesh was integrated into those, which she did not want to do without.

  There was some serious vanity there. Or maybe more than vanity. She was partly bald beneath the appliances.

  Barate relaxed slightly. “She didn’t say anything to me, but I think you’re right.”

  He has mild suspicions of his own regarding his friend Kyoga and someone called Bonegrinder.

  The Kyoga suspicion was off to the boneyard already. Stornes had his mesh halfway off. Old Bones assured me, This one is an empty vessel. Almost literally. The only thing going on inside his head is obsessive concern about the safety of his children.

  “Plural?” I had heard only one mentioned before.

  There are several. You have encountered two of them before, as members of the Faction.

  “Egad. Life. Everything ties back into everything else.”

  I got looks. People aren’t comfortable when Old Bones and I have private sidebars.

  Which point please keep in mind. Mr. Algarda has given us the complete and literal truth, as he knows it, regarding his mother’s thinking.

  Interesting way of putting that. It might mean that Old Bones had stumbled over a low-grade suspicion that he did not yet want to share.

  True.

  Grumble, grumble. Why do these things have to be so complicated?

  Just once why can’t it be easy?

  Because the stupid people get rounded up and sent to the labor camps before their careers begin? Before they get far enough in life to cause me grief?

  An intriguingly solipsist hypothesis.

  I stumble over stupid villains like I dodge road apples in the street. Stupid is the fifth element of creation and, probably, the most common, or else some magnetic power attracts it all to TunFaire.

  Penny showed up with fresh tea. She was surprised to see the size of the crowd. Dean had not warned her. I expected her to flee to the Dead Man’s room, her own, or to the kitchen, but she just backed off to the doorway and asked, “What’s going on?”

  Old Bones handled the updates. His responsibility, after all. She was his pet.

  28

  I shut the door behind Tara Chayne. That bastion of insensitivity was last to leave, hinting that she needed me to see her safely home.

  His Nibs assured me that what she wanted was exactly what I suspected.

  He observed, None of those people knew anything about Strafa’s killer and not much of value about the Tournament of Swords. Only Lady Tara Chayne is completely convinced that a new tournament is in the works. The others are taking it seriously only because Strafa is dead.

  Well, hell. Did they think somebody was working a scam?

  That could be, though I had some doubts after my encounters.

  The scam thesis remains on the table.

  He, too, had trouble accepting that anyone would really believe that a Tournament of Swords could be managed under contemporary conditions. “There are people with the talent to run a game on the Hill crowd, but do any of them have the guts?” The consequences could be grim. Might as well mess with Deal Relway or Belinda Contague. Your death would be easier.

  It is deserving of reflection. Though not rational, initiation of a tournament is not rational, either.

  He shuffled the clutter inside my head. He did the same with Penny and Singe, Belinda and John Stretch, then proclaimed the obvious.

  There is something missing.

  “There is a lot that’s missing. Like any sense. We’ve established that already.”

  He began to muse, allowing the rest of us the rare treat of witnessing the process. It is intriguing to see how his minds work. He sorted through speculations that were entirely ridiculous, like Strafa and Vicious Min having been struck by accidental discharges or having been attacked because of a case of mistaken identity.

  He knew the ideas were absurd but wanted to test every conceivable notion. The truth might appear just as absurd at first blush.

  The others drank beer and didn’t say much. I went to the Dead Man’s room and did the same. Penny came in to work on one of her paintings.

  I tried picking at the edges of the mistaken identity notion, couldn’t make it hold water. Strafa had been attacked deliberately, no doubt about it. Vicious Min had been injured at the same time.

  I must see this woman. Race and Dex, as well, but Min most of all, as soon as it can be arranged.

  “You’ve found a thread?”

  Perhaps. It has occurred to me to wonder why a Dread Companion, supposedly conjured from a supernatural realm and the only such creature so far actually noted, would arrive before the tournament began. And would then hire persons in your own trade to follow your movements. There is something odd about that.

  “Race and Dex? Are you sure? I don’t see how they could give us anything. I grilled them good today.”

  You did indeed. And they may be empty vessels. But it is equally possible that they know something unrelated to what you asked that they did not report, either, and that might reflect obliquely on the situation.

  I was skeptical. Those two were neither heart nor soul of the Algarda family operation. They cooked and cleaned.

  For example, we assumed that Strafa was coming home when she was attacked. But was she, in fact? Could she have been at home already and was called out? Might she have just gone to see why Vicious Min was loitering out front? Do we know anything about that woman that she did not tell other witnesses herself?

  “You could be right. Min told Barate. .”

  Yes. But.

  We had only Min’s word for anything involving Vicious Min.

  The more I think about this demon woman, the more I want to make her acquaintance. She may have had a hand in the assassination. Perhaps she had some bad luck, got hurt, got caught, but because there were no contradicting witnesses, she recouped her fortunes with a tall tale delivered before she passed out from loss of blood.

  That is what he does. He sees things from an unlikely angle. That s
cenario fit the facts. I stipulated as much. “But why would she have me watched?” Preston Womble had known no whys. He had known only that a man needed money to buy food and pay the rent and someone had given him cash to do what he knew how to do best. Elona Muriat would have known nothing more than he did.

  I recalled hungry times when I worked under the same blind circumstances. Every client lied about why the job needed doing.

  The deception came with the life. You got used to it.

  Womble and Muriat are unemployed now. We might lure them here with a job offer.

  “Won’t work. They won’t have anything to do with me.”

  We will not send you. Have Miss Winger collect the woman. Have Mr. Tharpe. . No. He is well known as an associate of yours. Mr. Playmate would be better, if his health is up to the legwork. Failing him, try Jon Salvation or Mr. Kolda. They might find the prospect exciting. Mr. Womble or Miss Muriat should not connect this neighborhood with you till they are too close to make their escape.

  Only if they hadn’t done their homework. I’d been living with Strafa when Vicious Min sicced them on me. Damn! Those two could turn out to be gold mines in the land of things we didn’t know we knew.

  29

  Saucerhead and Winger were onto the payroll, Tharpe definitely doing nothing connected with Womble or Muriat. The Dead Man had him doing courier duty. His first job was to inform Race and Dex that their presence was required here. Mr. Tharpe would show them the way.

  I was off to see Playmate, to see if he would lead Preston Womble to the Dead Man. If his health was too fragile, I’d move on to Kolda, whose apothecary shop was just blocks from Playmate’s stable. I wanted to see Play even if he couldn’t help. I wanted to know what he had seen that night in the Dream Quarter.

  Maybe he had noticed something that Penny hadn’t.

  Plus, I wanted to see how he was feeling. I hadn’t had a chance at the funeral or wake.

  He had been on the road to a hard death from an aggressive cancer. The combined efforts of Kolda, the Dead Man, and a healing priest named Hoto Pepper had licked that evil, barely. I hoped Play was still out in front of it. He was one of my better friends. And I liked him, which isn’t always the case with some of the people we’ve known for donkey’s years. He was one of the good guys, righteous in the sense that the word was designed.