Petty Pewter Gods gf-8

by Glen Cook

  Doubtless, in the shadows of her heart, she put a tick beside "Garrett" in her book of destruction.

  "How about the boss couple? Who are they?"

  "Imar and Imara." I didn't have to be told, brother and sister and man and wife. "Lord and Mistress of All, Skystrider and Earth Mother. Sun and Moon, Scatterer of Stars and She Who Calls Forth the Spring."

  "And so forth," I muttered. When you have the habit of backmouthing crime bosses and Guard chieftains, it ain't easy to break the circle.

  "And so forth. We tend to accumulate titles, of both supplication and accusation."

  That fit with what I knew about other gods. The Church, where I was raised, didn't have a full crew of gods like most religions. We had one God, No God But God—and about ten thousand saints who covered the same ground as lesser gods and goddesses. The Church had a whole heavenly bureaucracy, with saints who didn't do anything more strenuous than find lost buttons or keep an eye on the wine grape harvest. The Church's supernatural establishment was so big the whole thing would continue on inertia for ages after its last believer perished.

  "All right. Now that I know who you are, I have a vague notion what your problem is. One temple. Two bunches of gods. Whoever loses out loses big time."

  "Exactly." She was all business now. As if a beautiful woman can ever be all business, however much she wants to think that. Nature does not care about the clutter in the mind. Decorum is just another obstacle to be surmounted by instinct.

  I tried being all business, too.

  Instinct could get me dead.

  I reminded me that lady spiders eat their mates.

  9

  "Listen," Magodor snapped. "You get to hear this once."

  Generous. "I'm all ears, Maggie." I tried to wiggle them encouragingly, but I just don't have that talent. What an unfair world. A big goof like Saucerhead Tharpe can wiggle one of his ears, but I am stuck with...

  "Garrett."

  Whoops. "I'm awake! I'm awake!"

  "You may not accept it, but we gods have dealings amongst ourselves. Few of your priests are aware of this."

  "Yeah. Mostly they're big on declaring their own gods to be the only gods."

  "Partly. Some younger religions are intolerant that way. About rules. There is a set that governs the situation that exists now. Additionally, there are custom and past practice. It's not explicitly forbidden, but past practice is that pantheons don't fight over places on the Street."

  "Bad for business, eh?"

  "You have no idea. Customarily, a committee of more successful gods oversee a competition. Winner takes all."

  "Ah." That was my polished professional ah, my ah of illumination.

  "The competitions are unique each time so the contestants cannot rig the results beforehand."

  "I'll bet they never even try."

  Maggie smiled me a genuine smile. "Indeed."

  "So what's the contest? Where do I fit in?"

  "The prize temple has been sealed. Neither the Shayir nor we can get in. Somewhere there is a key. Whoever finds it, and recognizes it, can open and take over the temple."

  I used my eyebrow trick. "Oh?" She wasn't impressed.

  "It's supposed to be ordinary but rendered invisible to immortal eyes. The lock it fits cannot be broken. It will open only to the key. The Board probably expects us to rely on our faithful to do the legwork, but there is no specific prohibition against employing a professional. So we turned to you. And it seems that the Shayir, apparently having gotten wind of our interest, tried to lure you away."

  "I see," I said, not sure that I saw anything. "I'm supposed to find this key, scoot to this temple, and let you in before the Shayir find it."

  "That's the meat of it."

  "Interesting." If I was not caught up inside some bizarre con. That would fit my luck. Time and again I get dragged in where nobody plays me even close to straight.

  All part of the business.

  I had questions. Were the contesting gods, though discouraged from bushwhacking each other, allowed to make life hard for the opposition's mortals? I have enough troubles.

  Maggie looked at me like she meant to glare a hole through.

  "It's worth thinking about. My weirdest case yet. Great for my references later." I had to get out without making commitments. I knew I could not get away with a flat no.

  "There's a time limit, Garrett. The sands are running already. We have maybe another hundred hours."

  Gah. "What happens if nobody finds the key?"

  "These southern immigrants could bring more gods than Antitibet."

  "Everybody loses?"

  "It has happened before."

  "Let's talk money, then."

  Her face tightened. Prospective clients never want to talk about money.

  I told her, "I have a household to support. The usual story stuff—like maybe a night with Star, like a night in Elf Hill, wonderful as that might be—won't put food on the table."

  10

  "I have hovered above a thousand battlefields, Garrett. I can tell you where the treasure of a hundred vanquished armies are hidden."

  Handy trick. "Excellent. Then clue me about one small one that's close by."

  Her green began to rise. But she nodded abruptly. "Very well. The workman is worthy of his hire. And it is necessary that we trust one another. There is no time for anything else." She stalked across the room, bad Magodor becoming luscious Maggie as she walked. My instinctual side was adequately impressed. "Come see, Garrett."

  She indicated a hand mirror on the room's small mantelpiece. There was nothing mystical about it. The dwarves produce them by the thousands. Maggie passed a hand over the metal in a circular motion, as though polishing it. A mist formed between her hand and the metal. That faded. The mirror no longer reflected here and now.

  Woodland scene with men who rode desperately, low upon the necks of lathered horses. Arrows fell around them. A rider fell. The rest swept on into forest so dense their horses could make little headway. The riders dismounted and fled on foot. One led them to a trail hidden in the growth.

  "Amis the Third. In flight from the uprising masterminded by his brother Alis. He failed to make proper sacrifices. We turned our eyes away. We were strong in those times. Here. This is the treasure they were able to carry away. They buried it in a badger's den. It is still there." Her hand made that wiping motion again. The view backed off enough to give me a good idea where to look. Then the view changed.

  Now the fugitives were cornered. Their guide had led them into a trap. Their pursuers showed no mercy.

  "That's inside the wall now, isn't it?"

  "Yes."

  "Wonderful. That will do for a retainer if it's still there."

  "I wouldn't have chosen something that wasn't. One thing more." She took a cord from around her waist, a cord that had not been visible till she unwound it. It was four feet long. She wrapped one end around her left hand once, let the cord dangle from between thumb and forefinger, drew the thumb and forefinger of her right hand along the length of the cord.

  The cord became as stiff as an arrow. "Neat trick."

  She jabbed it, swordlike, right into my breadbasket.

  "Oof!" said I.

  "Had I pinched the end down into a point, so, it would have gone through you."

  "Uhm."

  She swung the cord, hit me on the left elbow. Right on the funnybone. I said something like, "Yeow! Oh shining wondrous mudsuckers fingushing wowzgoggle! That hurts!"

  "Pain is the best teacher. Watch." She reversed her fingerwork. The cord fell limp. She was a lefty. I was not surprised. Most artists and sorcerers I run into seem to be. So are most of the more successful villains. The really stupid bad guys, the kind who try to get in somewhere by sliding down the chimney without checking first to see if there is a fire burning, are always righties. But I am not a lefty myself, so not all righties are dumb.

  Magodor grabbed the middle of the cord and pulled. It kept getting longe
r. "Just like this, Garrett. Hands extended, level, palms up, heels of your hands together. Pull outward from the middle. It will stretch as long as you need it to."

  "That's one handy piece of rope."

  "Yes. It is." She stopped when she had twenty-five feet of cord. "It can be used as a garrote, too."

  "I saw that right off." It looked very much like the ritual garrotes the Kef sidhe use to carry out their holy murders.

  "Pay attention. To shorten it you rumple it all up in a ball, so." The cord crushed up small. She rolled the wad around on her palms, grabbed the ends that were sticking out, pulled. The cord was four feet long again.

  She stretched it to ten feet. "If you need more than one piece of line, tie a slip knot in the middle, so. Pull out a loop as long as you need. Cut the loop right at the knot." She held cord and knot with two hands. Another hand clipped the cord with a thin knife. Yet another hand dealt with the second piece of cord, which she handed to me. She dropped one end of what was left, grabbed the knot and slid it right to the end.

  I had seen this trick's cousin before. It was in the arsenal of most street conjurers. Only it didn't seem to be a trick this time.

  She took the cord back from me, wadded, rolled, had one four-foot piece again. "I will want this back."

  "Darn! I was afraid of that."

  She eyed me sharply. "I'll show you one more thing. For you this is likely to be its most useful facility."

  She stretched the cord to six feet, tied a small bowline at one end, ran the other end through the resulting loop, forming a large noose. She set the circle of cord on the carpet, stepped inside, lifted the cord. Everything of her below the rising cord vanished. In a moment there were just hands floating in the air. Those disappeared as she pulled the loop shut. "Pull the cord inside but leave it hanging." I could hear her fine.

  "That's astounding."

  "There is still one little hole up high where someone can see inside. You must be careful about making sounds. You can be heard. If you take reasonable precautions neither people nor animals should be able to scent you." A knot appeared in the air. Fingers poked through, expanded the loop outward. It dropped.

  Magodor stepped out. She untied the bowline, handed me the cord. Her fingers were soft and hot, but I jerked away from the prick of a talon as sharp as a razor. She raised a finger to her lips.

  I pulled that cord around my waist the way she had worn it. It stayed in place without any special tucking or tying. I couldn't see it but could feel it. I observed, "The sands are running. How do I get out of here?" See? No commitment at all. Any she heard she made up herself out of wishful thinking.

  "Abyss."

  The guy who had driven the coach floated out of a shadow. I had not suspected his presence. Magodor was pleased by my surprise. "Show Mr. Garrett to the street."

  Abyss looked at me from eyes that were leagues away inside his hood. The air grew cold. I got the reeling he resented being forced to bother with me. I thought of a couple of cracks but doubted he had the brain or sense of humor to understand. And I still had to get out of there.

  As I left that room, Magodor said, "Be careful. The Shayir are desperate and dangerous."

  "Right." The Godoroth, of course, were just playful puppies.

  I encountered several servants before leaving the house, startling every one. None paid Abyss any mind, though one who passed close by suffered one of those unexpected chills that sometimes fall upon you for no obvious reason.

  Abyss never said a word. I felt his eyes upon me for a long time after I got my feet onto cobblestones.

  11

  Just playful puppies, the Godoroth.

  I moved fast for a few blocks, just to get some distance. Then I stopped to get my bearings.

  I had been right. The place was right up there. I didn't recognize the particular house, out it wouldn't take much effort to find out who owned it. I wondered if I should bother. Knowing might be too scary.

  Before I moved on, I charted a course unlikely to lead me into trouble. I had to get to the Dead Man. I needed some serious advice. I had fallen into deep shit if I was dealing with real gods. I might be into it deep anyway.

  I moved fast and tried to watch every which way at once, sure that the effort was a waste because I was dealing with shapeshifters who could walk behind me and just be something else every time I looked around.

  My head still hurt, though my hangover had faded. I was past the sleepiness, but I was starved and all I really wanted was a sample of Dean's cooking.

  The streets were not crowded. Up there they never are. But times have changed. I saw several enterprising pushcart operators trying to sell trinkets or services. They would not have dared in times past. Used to be privately hired security thugs would send their kind scurrying with numerous bruises.

  They still did, I discovered. I came on several brunos bouncing an old scissor sharpener all over an acre of street. They eyeballed me but saw I was headed downhill. Why risk any pain encouraging me to hurry? I guess those other cartmen were around because the thugs did not have time to get them all. Or they had purchased a private license from the guards.

  Not long after I crossed the boundary into the workaday real world, I realized that I had acquired a tail. She didn't give me a good look, so I could not be sure, but I suspected she might have had red hair when I was on the back end of the chase.

  Sometimes you just got more balls than brains. You do stuff that don't make sense later. Especially if you blow it.

  I was lucky this time but still can't figure out why I headed for Brookside Park instead of going home. If that was the redhead back there she knew where I lived.

  The park was a mile out of my way, too. It is a big tract of trees and brush and reservoirs fed by springs that fill a creek running off the flank of the Hill. There are Royal fishponds and a Royal aviary and a stand of four-story granaries and silos supposedly kept full in case of siege or disaster. I wouldn't bet much on there being a stash if ever we are forced to tap those resources. Corruption in TunFaire is such that the officials in charge probably don't even go through bureaucratic motions before selling whatever the farmers bring in.

  But, hell. Maybe I am too cynical.

  The park police force, never numerous nor energetic nor effective at their best, had worse problems than the thugs up the Hill. Whole tribes of squatters had set up camp. Again I wondered why they found TunFaire so attractive. The Cantard is hell by anybody's reckoning, but a lot less so if you were born there. Why leave the hell you know, walk hundreds of miles, plunk yourself down in a town where not only do you have no prospects but the natives all hate you and don't need much excuse to do you grief?

  On the other hand—and I don't understand why—TunFaire is a dream for this whole end of the world, the golden city. Maybe you can't see why if you are looking at it from the inside.

  The woman gave me more room out there, off the street, so she would be less obvious. I didn't get a better look.

  I strode briskly, hup two three four. Up and down hump and swale, round bush and copse. I darted into a small, shady stand of evergreens in a low place, careful not to disturb the old needles on the ground. Hey, I used to be Force Recon. I was the bear in the woods.

  I selected a friendly shadow, did the trick with the cord that was supposed to make me invisible. I waited.

  She was careful. You have to be when you are tracking somebody and they drop out of sight. They could be setting an ambush.

  I didn't plan to jump her. I just wanted to try my new toy and get a look at someone who seemed interested in me.

  She was about six feet tall, dishwater blonde, sturdy, maybe twenty-five, better groomed than most gals you see on the street. She had an adequate supply of curves but wasn't dressed to brag. She wore a homespun kind of thing that would have looked better cut up and sewed up and used to dress large batches of potatos. From what I could see she lacked legs and feet. Her skirts were that long. She made me think of a younger versi
on of Imar's wife, Imara.

  She moved cautiously, as though she knew I had turned. She eased past not ten feet away. I held my breath. It was obvious she could not see me. It was just as obvious that she felt I was real close. She had the heebie-jeebies. I restrained my boyish side and didn't yell "Boo!" I studied her but didn't come up with a clue. She might be some nightmare in disguise. Whatever, she was no smouldering redhead.

  She seemed human. Do devils get the heebie-jeebies?

  She decided to get the hell out of there before bad things happened. Which suggested that bad things could. But that might only be because she was Shayir and knew something unpleasant about the Godoroth.

  Some surprise that would be.

  I do a good tail. I decided to put off seeing the Dead Man, and suffering his wisdom, long enough to see where this mouse ran. I spotted her a lead.

  I discovered that becoming invisible imposes limitations. Like I was enclosed inside some kind of sack I could see through. There was plenty of air in there with me. The walls of the sack didn't collapse. It was like being inside a big, floppy bubble that wobbled and tangled and toppled when you moved. You could get around, but you had to be careful. If you got in a hurry, you stumbled and rolled downhill into a soggy low spot. The bag didn't keep water from soaking your knees and elbows.

  Rorjfrazzle! Mirking sludglup! Everything just has to have a down side.

  Or three. It took me ten minutes to get back out of the sack. The loop in the cord has to line up with the closed hole just right. If you have been moving around, you probably didn't keep track of where that hole went. Rotten racklefratz!

  As I stumbled out and crawled away and started undoing my bowline, I realized that the tittering above wasn't the gossip of sparrows. A tiny voice only inches overhead piped, "We seen what you done. We seen what you done."

  A pixie colony inhabited the grove. Now that they were bouncing around and giggling they were obvious. I hadn't noticed a thing when they were silent.