Petty Pewter Gods gf-8

by Glen Cook

  "You think one of the Godoroth is a traitor?" There was a boggler. Not that treachery isn't a favorite divine sport inside any given pantheon.

  And perhaps the other way as well. During your encounter with Magodor there were hints. In fact, you were, apparently, intercepted on your way to a rendezvous with the Shayir, though there is no mention of any Adeth amongst them, according to Linda Lee.

  "The more you complicate this the worse it smells. It could get real nasty."

  Indeed it could. That is why I have devoted such a great store of energy to ferreting out potential twists before we find ourselves caught in the claws of an unexpected turnaround.

  Although he was probably blowing smoke and wasn't really doing anything, it was refreshing to hear him claim that he was.

  "Sit tight?" I asked again.

  Sit tight. And keep your hands off that rope.

  "I'd say something about grandmas and egg-sucking, but it would fly right over your head."

  Like a child who cannot focus its attention long, you require frequent reminders. It is inevitable that some will be superfluous or redundant.

  Was that a put-down?

  Yes. It was. He was in full command of his powers, which meant there would be no getting any last word.

  I jerked my hand away from my waist. That rope was damned seductive. It was hard not to fiddle with its ends.

  A pity that we cannot interview the Cat person. She might be a sizable gap in these gods' wall of secrecy. It is possible she is knowledgeable but unable to protect her knowledge.

  "Guess I should have turned on the Garrett charm and sweet-talked her right on home here. Eh?" His opinion of my ability to cope with women has no connection with reality.

  He responded with an unfocused mental sneer.

  I countered with another grumble about him spending my hard-earned, then retreated to my office.

  32

  When the going gets tough the tough guy takes his problems to Eleanor. "What do you think, Darling?" Hell, Eleanor might be more use than the Dead Man.

  She was all the way Over There.

  Eleanor is the central feature of a painting of a frightened woman fleeing a dark mansion. Shadows of evil tower behind her, suggestions of wickedness hunting. The painter had a great talent and incredible power. Once his painting had been possessed by a dread, drear magic, but most of that had leaked away.

  Eleanor had been a key player in an old case. I had fallen for her, only to learn that she had gotten herself murdered while I was still wearing diapers.

  It isn't often the victim helps solve her murder, then breaks a guy's heart when she's done.

  It had been a strange case.

  It had been a strange relationship, doomed from the start, only I hadn't known until the end. The painting, which I seized from her killer, and some memories are all I have left.

  When I have a problem that cuts deep or just tangles my brain I talk it over with Eleanor. That seems to help.

  The Dead Man doesn't have any soul. Not the way Eleanor does.

  For an instant she seemed thoughtful, seemed to have a remark poised right behind her parted lips.

  Take charge. Start acting instead of reacting.

  "Right, Honey. Absodamnlutely. But clue me. How do I grab Imar—or good old Lang—by the gilhoolies while I kick his butt till he starts talking? Tell me. I'll strut out that front door with my ass-kicking boots on." Which was the crux, the heart, the soul of my problem. And ain't it always, when mortals deal with the gods? Almost by definition, Joe Human has no leverage.

  Dean appeared. He carried a big platter of stew. He set that in front of me while he frowned at Eleanor. Me talking to her makes him uncomfortable. There is enough residual sorcery in the painting to set his skin crawling.

  "I saw Miss Maya while I was doing our marketing last evening."

  That explained why there was food in the house. He had wasted no time. I don't like stew much, and his latest effort didn't look even a little appetizing but it smelled tempting. I dug in and discovered the stew tasted way better than it looked. It was lamb. We hadn't had lamb for a long time.

  Dean has his weaknesses, but bad cooking isn't among them. "That's amazing, Dean."

  "Mr. Garrett?"

  "I can wander all over town for months and never once run into Maya or Tinnie. I live here, but I never see either one of them come to the door. But let me take a walk around the block, when I get back I hear all about how Miss Tinnie or Miss Maya was around and I get all the latest news from their lives. How does that work, Dean? Do you hang out some kind of sign to let them know the ogre isn't in his cave?"

  Dean was both taken aback and baffled. I had lost him several sarcastic snaps earlier. "I'm sure I don't know, sir." He looked like he thought his feelings ought to be hurt, but he wasn't quite sure why.

  "Don't mind me, Dean. I'm not in one of my better moods."

  "Really? I hadn't noticed."

  "All right. All right. The stew is better than ever. You didn't think to order a fresh keg, did you?"

  "I thought of it."

  We were going to play that game, eh? "And did you follow through?"

  "Actually, I did. It appears Miss Winger will be spending some time here, off and on, and Mr. Tharpe enjoys a mug when he comes by, so that seemed the hospitable thing to do."

  "Better have the empties taken away. I forgot to take care of that while you were gone."

  "I did notice that." Since he had to work around the stack in the kitchen. "I cautioned the delivery outfit to bring a wagon or an extra cart."

  Smart aleck. He disapproves of my hobby. He doesn't have a hobby himself. He needs one bad. Never completely trust a guy who doesn't have a hobby. He takes everything too damned seriously.

  Maybe he and the Goddamn Parrot could go for long walks together.

  "I just had an idea, Dean."

  He backed off a step, beyond the sink. Beyond the kegs.

  I gave him a look at my raised eyebrow. "What?"

  "You are at your most dangerous when you start having ideas."

  "Like a newly sharpened sword."

  "In the hands of a drunk."

  "You would make somebody a really great wife. Here it is. We let it out that Mr. Big knows where there is buried treasure. We say he used to belong to a Lambar pirate, Captain Scab, who taught him the major chart keys. Somebody will hold us up for him next time we take him outside."

  Dean chuckled. He doesn't like the Goddamn Parrot either. That parti-colored crow is as hard on Dean as he is on me. I owed Morley a big one. I ought to lug the Dead Man and his bug collection over and dump them in The Palms.

  "It would be far easier and much less complicated just to wring its neck."

  It would indeed, but we humans seldom pursue the pragmatic course. We let ancillary factors influence us.

  For example, Morley would be offended if I murdered his gift.

  Dean pulled a baking sheet out of the oven. I grabbed a biscuit while it was still smouldering, drenched it in butter, splashed on a little honey. Heaven.

  Paradise has a way of running off faster than I can sprint trying to catch it.

  Garrett. Presences have begun gathering in the neighborhood.

  "My friends?"

  Dean gave me a look, then realized I wasn't talking to him.

  I cannot sense them clearly. It may be that most are not entirely present in this level of reality. I do sense a great deal of unfocused power out there, and barely restrained fears and angers. That is not a combination that bodes well.

  "No shit. The master is back, folks. Do you get any sense of immediate intent? Can you make out any identities?"

  No. In my youth I went to sea. You have been there, on a day when the storms stalk the horizons, balanced on slanted towers of dark rain, and the winds rise and die in moments. Sitting here sensing those creatures is like standing on the deck of a galleon watching those storms walk about.

  "Very picturesque, Old Bones." I kn
ew exactly what he meant. I had been there. "I didn't know you were a sailor."

  I was not.

  "You said... "

  I went to sea.

  "Probably one step ahead of the loan sharks. You mean they're just out there, hanging around, pissed off, but without any special villainy in mind?"

  Yes.

  I headed upstairs so I could peek out the windows. Excepting one barred one in the kitchen that allows Dean to get some air while cooking on a summer's day, we have none on the ground floor. That is characteristic of TunFairen architecture. We like to make our thieves work. "Are we under siege?"

  Not as such. We are under observation.

  "Don't go showing off."

  In your own vernacular, Garrett, go teach your mother to suck eggs.

  Grandmother, Old Bones. It's go teach your grandmother to suck eggs. You're going to talk like the rabble, at least try to get it right.

  33

  Bizarre. The street was almost empty. A brisk but confused wind flipped leaves and rubbish this way and that. It looked colder than it ought to be. There was an un-seasonal overcast. Mrs. Cardonlos was out in front of her rooming house taking advantage of the light traffic to clean the street. For reasons that would make sense only inside her strange head, she was staring at my place like the weird weather had to be my fault.

  She can lay anything off onto me.

  While I watched, she put her broom down, went inside, came out wearing another sweater. She glared at the sky, daring it to darken any more.

  "You using my eyes?"

  Yes.

  "Looks like late autumn, except the trees still have their leaves." Not that there is a lot of greenery around. My neighborhood isn't big on tree-lined streets, lawns, gardens, and such. Brick and stone, that is us. Brick and stone.

  "Can you tell anything useful?"

  No. Have Dean put the bird out the front door. Back him up but stay out of sight.

  "Right." What the hell? Oh, well. Let him explain to Morley.

  Mrs. Cardonlos stopped working. She stared malevolently, but not my way. Remarkable. I leaned so I could see the object of her wrath.

  "See that woman, Chuckles? That's the redhead who led me into all this. Adeth." Curious, the old woman being able to see her.

  She looks forlorn. A sad waif.

  "What's gotten into you? You have bad dreams last nap?"

  Sir?

  "You usually take a more mechanistic, colorless view of the world."

  Surely not. Please dispatch the bird.

  "I'd love to if I could find a way to make somebody else take the rap." I went and told Dean what His Nibs wanted. Dean just shook his head, dried his hands on a dishtowel. He left the sink to its own devices, headed for the small front room. Mr. Big had no premonition that he was about to enjoy a new adventure. Dean collected him unprotesting while I checked the stoop and street through the peephole. "All clear, Dean."

  He fiddled with locks and latches and chains. I take back what I said about him not having a hobby.

  The Goddamn Parrot looked like he was about half alive. He was behaving himself. It was scary.

  I hoped I didn't start missing his obnoxious beak.

  Dean pulled the door halfway open, leaned out far enough to chuck the flashy little squab into the wind. A puff of that got inside and, yes, it was chilly.

  Dean jerked back inside, started to push the door shut.

  "Wait! No. Go ahead. I can look through the peephole."

  Dean stepped aside. I peeped. "I was right. The beer wagon is coming. Get an extra keg if he has one. We may be locked up a long time."

  Dean glowed with dark disapproval. Then, "Are we actually involved in something serious?"

  All the activity had not clued him.

  "We are. And it might be the most dangerous thing yet." I hit the highlights while we waited for Charanagua Slim to bring his cart to the foot of our steps. Slim was part elf, part troll, an improbable mix that had to be seen to be believed. He was short and hard as a rock, and both his parents had to have been the ugliest of their kind ever to reach breeding age. He was a sweetheart when you got to know him, but he made nails look soft when money was involved. He was important in my life only because he was my main source of fresh kegs of the holy elixir.

  Dean slipped out to help Slim. Slim was going to be irked. Not all of my empties carried his chop.

  I denned up in my office. Slim didn't need to see me. He might tell somebody later. Or he might insist we review my fickle relationships with beer haulers.

  I heard the door close barely after I sat down. I never caught a snarl of complaint from Slim. Something was wrong. I headed for the hallway.

  Dean had just passed my door. He had a pony keg on his shoulder. That's hardly enough beer to wet your whistle. "What's that?"

  "All he could deliver right now. All he had left on his cart. I took what I could get."

  I followed him into the kitchen. The empties had not stirred. "What about those?"

  "He didn't have room on his cart. He'll be back, he said. He said business is good, what with the soldiers coming home. Said he's working fourteen-hour days."

  Wouldn't you know? "I smell a beer shortage coming on. Another of the unexpected horrors of peace." I went scurrying toward the front door. Better have Slim bring me a cartload all my own. I would become a beer hoarder.

  Garrett, please.

  I gave it up, just took a peek through the hole. Slim sure enough did have kegs and barrels practically dripping off his cart. "I guess those human rights guys need a lot to keep them going." Beer drinking is an essential part of the preliminary rituals of political demonstrations.

  "Hang on, Smiley."

  Yes?

  "Use my eyes. Take a gander up the street, past Old Lady Cardonlos' place."

  I see nothing but a somewhat substantial peasant girl.

  "That's Cat. The one who gave me the ride on the flying horse."

  I have her. Half a minute passed. She is not quite mortal, Garrett. Ah. She is an interesting child. And this house is her destination. She is not aware that it is the center of a great deal of attention. She lacks some very basic divine senses despite being the child of a god.

  "She never struck me as any genius. Hey, Dean! We're going to have company. Take her in to His Nibs. We don't want her to know I'm here."

  Dean offered me a look at his hardest glare. "I hope there is money in this somewhere. I have no interest in putting on a show for one of your prospects."

  "It's all business. Just let her in. Offer her tea and a muffin and hand her off to the Dead Man."

  "Yes, sir."

  Thank you.

  Both sounded as though no greater imposition had settled upon their lives before.

  "You wanted to interview Cat, Smiley. Now's your big chance."

  34

  Those things out there do not appear to be aware of her as anything but another mortal. I sense no interest at all.

  "Intriguing."

  Extremely.

  Nobody knew who Cat was, but Cat was in the game. "Old Bones, this may be more complicated than I thought."

  Probably. And she may be more of a challenge than I had anticipated. Her mind has a remarkably stout shell surrounding it. It conceals her memories and all but her surfacemost thoughts. There is enough on the surface, though, to confirm the notion that she serves neither the Shayir nor the Godoroth.

  "That's hot news. Shucks. Recomplication wasn't what I wanted right now."

  Dean continued to grumble his way up the hall. He had a pie in the oven and didn't think it was reasonable that he be expected to watch the door as well. We were turning into a bunch of cranky old men.

  Had to be the Dead Man's wicked influence.

  Pshaw! Allow her to knock a second time before you open the door, Dean. I need time to get the bird back here.

  Dean responded with select commentary worthy of Mr. Big himself. I have to admit I felt a certain sympathy for his pos
ition.

  Go into your office, Garrett.

  He was surly. Still had that one eye inside my head.

  I went, but watched as long as I dared.

  Dean stiffened, presumably getting instructions. He really hates having the Dead Man get into his head. I managed to get out of sight before he yanked the door open, not waiting for any damned second knock while his pie was baking.

  The Goddamn Parrot blasted inside, staggering the old man, arriving with his beak going full speed. "Lay your glims on this bimbo! Hooters deluxe!"

  "What is that?" Cat squeaked. My erstwhile traveling companion seemed a touch irritable.

  Welcome to the house of aggravation, dear.

  "A pet. Ignore it. Product of a wastrel youth. It doesn't understand that it is offensive," Dean replied. "It escaped some time ago, going out to search for Mr. Garrett, my employer. Mr. Garrett has vanished. Wenching again, no doubt. They were inseparable."

  I considered what choke holds might best serve in a debate with a man Dean's age.

  Garrett. The creature No-Neck has been warned. He recognized the bird but failed to take its message seriously. He seemed to think you were trying to pull some clever practical joke.

  Great. "He didn't get the name No-Neck for no reason," I whispered. But would I have listened to a talking bird I had met only once, when both of us were drinking?

  Probably not.

  Unless it was a redhead. Dean. Please close the door.

  "Cheap shot!"

  The Goddamn Parrot kept yapping like he thought Cat was Winger. Maybe he couldn't tell the difference.

  Near as I could tell from the racket, she kept getting in Dean's way, possibly because she didn't know how to deal with the Goddamn Parrot. No matter how obnoxious the critter gets it's never good manners to stomp somebody's pet in their own house.

  Then the awful truth plopped like a great stinking lump falling behind the tallest herbivorous thunder lizards.

  "Hey, Honeybuns, dig the weasel out of this dump and let's get going." Yes. Him. And his humming wings.