Petty Pewter Gods gf-8

by Glen Cook

  It was the same damned racket out there. The same damned bigoted morons trying to start the same damned brickbat party.

  I groaned as I tried to get up. My imagination was so good I had bruises and sore muscles.

  I just had to try to destroy my eyeballs. I pulled a corner of a curtain back... Whoops! They had thrown extra logs onto the fires of the sun this morning, then done away with any clouds that might temper its brilliance. I backed off until my eyes stopped watering and aching. Then I eased into it.

  Yep! Same old bunches of fools with too much time on their hands. Same old mischief looking for a place to happen.

  Across the street there... rooted in exactly the same spot. Exactly the same redhead. Looking right at me, just like before. But this time I knew what she was. Trouble. This time I knew better. This time I wouldn't chase her and let her make a fool of me. I can manage that fine all by myself, thank you.

  I felt a slight tingle way back in my mind. The Dead Man was there. I realized he must have been there all night. Meaning maybe he had had a thread connected during my nocturnal adventure. Which suggested that he was very concerned indeed. I tried to give him a good look at the redhead.

  As though she realized she was under special scrutiny she sort of stepped sideways and backward and evaporated into a mob surrounding two women glaring at one another nose to nose. One was a very short, fat, ugly human woman. The other was a tall, skinny, beautiful dwarf. They looked like sisters.

  Somebody had noticed and made mention of that fact. Somebody had been stirring with a big, big spoon.

  A woman left the knot. There was a ghost of a hint of furtiveness about her. "That her?"

  Indeed. I am able to follow her by sensing her as a sort of absence of presence in motion.

  I didn't ask him to explain. I didn't care. I was watching the wonder of the latter half of our century. Mrs. Cardonlos and her broom were breaking up the all-female confrontation. She found the assistance of a public-spirited giantess invaluable.

  "Damn me, the old harridan ain't all bad after all. What'll I do for somebody to hate?"

  The Goddamn Parrot squawked on cue.

  "Of course. Thanks, Morley."

  Mr. Dotes himself was coming up Macunado, his sartorial elegance causing a stir all the way. Or maybe that stir was caused by the grolls accompanying him, a pair of ugly green guys fifteen feet tall. They had snaggly fangs in their mouths and knobbly clubs in their hands and raggedy sacks on their shoulders. They were smiling, but a smiling groll looks twice as fierce as a frowning groll.

  Grolls are the result of careless dalliances between giants and trolls. These two came from a single lapse in judgment. They were brothers. Doris and Marsha by name.

  Nobody alive in TunFaire would rag those two about their names. They are slow of wit and slower to anger, but once they get started you really don't want to be in the same county.

  They were related to Morley in some obscure fashion.

  Why was he leading them to my house?

  "You still tracking Adeth, Old Bones?" Looking at Doris and Marsha left me wondering how The Call could take itself seriously. Boys like these could be more trouble than any fool wanted.

  I am. Her movements seem haphazard. Perhaps even aimless.

  "Think she knows you're onto her?"

  Improbable.

  I considered reminding him that he was highly improbable, but now Morley was just fifty feet from my stoop. The grolls were not his only companions. Several of his old crew, including Sarge, Puddle, and Dojango Roze, pint-size brother of the grolls, were with him. All were armed as heavily as the law allowed. All in all, that crowd had barely enough candlepower to light up the inside of a one-hole outhouse, but they had muscle enough to toss the toilet half a mile.

  The Dead Man warned Dean. As Morley reached the foot of my steps the Goddamn Parrot went flapping into the morning, turning to follow Adeth. The shiny little buzzard was entirely under the Dead Man's control. He let fall a gift that would have spoiled Morley's splendor in a grand way, but Dotes was far too alert and quick. He eased out of the way.

  Chuckling, I dropped the curtain, got myself dressed in something presentable, stumbled downstairs. I had aches and pains everywhere. And my head hurt, too. For nothing. Damn! You get up feeling awful, you ought to at least have had some drinks and fun.

  58

  At the foot of the stair I turned right into the kitchen. Dean wasn't back yet. I snagged a couple of fresh biscuits, broke them open and pasted them with butter, then smeared on great gobs of honey. Then I poured me a mug of tea and put some honey into that. Then I dug out an old teapot and put some water on to heat so I could follow the regular tea with an infusion of willow bark.

  Dean returned to the kitchen shaking his head. "I hope he knows what he's doing."

  "That pot is for willow bark tea."

  "Don't talk with your mouth full. You didn't drink anything last night."

  "Just one long one. This pain is from the job."

  He frowned suspiciously. "What is this job? Nothing honest would pay so much."

  He always worries about us getting paid at all. I've never heard him carp about us getting overpaid. "Huh?"

  "Mr. Dotes just brought in what looks like a pirates' treasure."

  "Argh! And she be a huge un, aye, matey?"

  "Too huge."

  "Great. I won't have to work for a while."

  "Wrong. Mr. Weider requires your help as soon as you clean up this mess."

  I sighed, buttered another biscuit. "It's a conspiracy. Everybody thinks I should work. You ever see a cat do anything more than he has to to get by? The world would be a better place if we all took a lesson from the cat."

  "Cats don't leave anything for their children."

  "Dean, take a quick head count here. How many kids? How many can even have kids? We don't need to give a damn about posterity because we don't have no posterity."

  Dean sighed. "Perhaps not. You can't even learn not to talk with your mouth full."

  He should have been somebody's mother. He was a worse nag than my mom ever was. He was more determined, too.

  "I'll be in there with the rest." I left him.

  I visited the front door first and used the peephole to check the stoop. Sure enough, the grolls and Dojango were seated out there, gossiping in grollish. Dojango Roze was Morley's size but claimed he and the grolls were triplets born of different mothers. Morley backed him up. I'd always considered that a bad joke, but after having wallowed in the mythological for a few days I had no trouble imagining one of our religions boasting some dire prophecy about the coming of triplets born of different mothers.

  I took one cautious peek into the small front room. No owl girls. Maybe they left with the Goddamn Parrot. I wasn't surprised to see them gone.

  I headed for the Dead Man's room. "You put out the Cat?"

  Upstairs asleep.

  The cherub, I noted, remained immobile. And visible. Sarge and Puddle were looking it over. Curious. "And the owls?"

  Gone. Bored. But they will return. I fear they may be so simple they will think of nowhere else to go.

  "That could make life interesting."

  Pshaw!

  "Thought you didn't like cats?" Morley said.

  "You know me. Big soft spot for strays."

  "Two-legged strays. Of the under twenty-five and female sort."

  I turned. "How you hanging, Puddle? Sarge? The new business going all right?"

  "Fugginay, Garrett. Only problem is da kind a people ya got ta put up wit'. All dem highfalutin, nose-in-da-air types, dey can be a real pain in da ass."

  "Hell, people are the big problem in any line of work."

  "Fugginay. 'Specially dem Call guys. Dey's gonna find some a dem cut up inta stew meat... "

  Morley cleared his throat.

  "Fugginay. Boss, you really need us here?" Puddle, doing all the talking, had been keeping one nervous eye on the Dead Man. The Dead Man can be salt on the r
aw nerves of folks without clear consciences.

  "Wait out front with the Rozes. Try to keep them from getting into another brawl." Dotes shrugged my way. "Every time I turn around some damned human rights fool is starting something with Doris or Marsha."

  "Sounds like a problem that will cure itself, given time. Good for the human race, too. Eliminate the stupid blood from the breeding stock."

  "There aren't enough grolls and trolls and giants in the world to accomplish that, working full time. I dug up your treasure." He indicated the sacks scattered around us.

  It wasn't likely that he'd done any digging with his own hands. These days he was acutely conscious of the line between management and labor.

  Just for grins I remarked, "I see you've gotten your share already."

  He gave me exactly the look I expected. Little boy caught with hand in cookie jar. Only, "I took some to pay the guys to dig and carry and guard. They don't work for free, Garrett."

  Not when they were exhuming a treasure. I was surprised that any of it had made it to my house.

  I poked around like I knew what I was doing. Morley couldn't know that I had no real idea of the size of the treasure, or of its makeup.

  He said, "Instead of playing games you could ask your partner."

  I could. But where was the fun in that? "He's a tenant here, not a partner. Tell you what. Since you've been such a big help I'll see that you get something unique in all TunFaire. Maybe in the whole world."

  "I'm not taking the parrot back."

  Damn! Everybody is a mind reader anymore.

  When he wants to bother, the Dead Man can move stuff with his thoughts. The treasure sacks tinkled and stirred. "Big mice around here." What was he doing?

  Morley asked, "What's this all about, anyway? How did you find a treasure right here in town?"

  "Eyewitness to the burial told me all about it. It was her way of paying me to do a job." Which, I had to remember, had not been completed to her satisfaction.

  Morley didn't believe me. "Those coins are ancient, Garrett."

  There are artifacts here which we dare not market as they are.

  "Huh?"

  There are crowns and scepters and other royal insignia that today's Crown would demand if its agents became aware that they have been recovered.

  "What? Karenta didn't even exist then. Even the Empire was still up the road. It would take some really bizarre legal reasoning to... "

  Nevertheless.

  "Of course." Silly me. Logic, right, and justice had nothing to do with it. Royal claims are founded rock solid upon the inarguable fact that the Crown has more swords than anybody else. "You didn't give your guys anything unusual when you paid them?"

  Morley shook his head. "I've handled treasures before, Garrett. You need somebody to break that stuff down and move it, I know somebody who'll make you a deal."

  No doubt. And he would get a couple points back for steering the fence.

  That's the way it works.

  I said, "I know people who might be interested in the coinage for its collectible value. How about we just bid out the rest as a lot?"

  Not a good idea. That might put us at risk, as we would be identifiable as the source of the whole. Also, many of these items have value well beyond the intrinsic.

  "But this stuff has been out of sight for ages. Nobody ought to even remember it."

  Put the material under my chair and elsewhere out of sight. Give Mr. Dotes his fee.

  "No need to get testy. I was just ribbing him."

  I am aware of that, as is Mr. Dotes. The cleanup is necessary, as we are about to receive guests who may ask embarrassing questions should those bags be lying about, dribbling coins and bracelets.

  "Huh?" I started slinging sacks. Morley helped, paying himself off as he went. He was not unreasonable about how much he hurt me. "What kind of guests, Chuckles?" Off the top of my head I couldn't think of anybody with nerve enough to push through the group on my stoop just so they could aggravate me by pounding on my door.

  But somebody started hammering away.

  Priests, the Dead Man sent.

  Help!

  59

  Not just priests. A whole gang of priests, some of them quite well armed. I looked them over as I let a few come inside, a courtesy they obtained only at the Dead Man's insistence. None of them looked like they were used to the streets. Maybe that explained the numbers and the weapons.

  "Who's minding the store, guys? Thieves are going to be carrying off everything but the roof tiles."

  A guy so old they must have carried him over squinted. He grunted. He dug inside his cassock till he located a pair of TenHagen cheaters thicker than window glass. He readied them with shaking, liver-spotted hands. Once he got them on, he pushed them way out to the end of his pointy nose, then leaned his head back so he could examine me through them. He grunted again. "You must be Garrett."

  His voice was a surprise. It was not an old man's voice. And it belonged to somebody used to telling others what to do. But I didn't recognize him. I had thought I knew the faces of the key people at Chattaree.

  "I fear you have me at a disadvantage, Father."

  The old man tilted his head farther. "They did say that you are lapsed. Perhaps even apostate."

  No argument there. They were right. But who were they? I had had a brush with the powers at Chattaree, but I'd thought that was forgotten. Maybe not. Maybe all those saints have nothing better to do than to keep track of me and to report me to the priests.

  "I am Melton Carnifan." Pause. Grown pregnant before, "Secretary to His Holiness."

  "Gotcha, Mel." Yep. A real heavyweight in his own mind. Bishop Melton Carnifan was a power-behind-the-throne kind of guy capable of putting a bug in his boss's ear. They were scared of him inside the Church. Only the Grand Inquisitor and his merry henchmen frightened them more.

  Any good religion has to have a really sound foundation of personal terror.

  As Brother Melton suggested, I wasn't inside anymore. And today way less than ever before.

  I said, "I suppose I should be honored. A whole platoon of you guys just to win me back? No?"

  Carnifan smiled. The old man did have a sense of humor, though it was in the same class as silk flowers. No doubt it showed best when he and the Inquisitors were showing heretics the incredible extent of their errors.

  "I am entirely indifferent to the welfare of your soul, Mr. Garrett. Your record suggests that the Church would get nothing but grief out of you even if you did reach out for salvation."

  No doubt. "I didn't figure you were here to refund my dear mother's tithes." I swallowed any further comment. These guys might not be the big deals they pretended to be or wished they were, but they could still make life miserable. Religion is always a good excuse for unpleasant behavior.

  "No, Mr. Garrett. Not at all. No. Actually, His Holiness had a dream. Or a vision, if you will, because he was awake at the time that it actually happened."

  "Don't tell me. Saint Strait showed up, slung an arm around the old boy's shoulders, told him he ought to get together with me for a game of backgammon."

  The old man's jaw dropped again. I had him going. He huffed and puffed for a couple of seconds. The two younger priests I had let in with him moved closer, maybe to catch him if he collapsed from apoplexy. Neither one actually dared to touch him.

  Bring them in here, Garrett.

  Good idea. "Come with me. We can get off our feet."

  They came. Ha.

  The Dead Man is impressive first time you see him, even if you know about him. Even if you think you're hot shit yourself. The old man paused a couple of steps inside the doorway, stared. Just to tweek him I said, "Yep. Every single thought. Especially everything you want to hide because you can't help thinking about it now."

  Garrett!

  I ignored the Dead Man, said, "Get to the point, Bishop. I've had a rough few days lately because of the gods. I'm not in a real hospitable mood."

&
nbsp; You have him, Garrett. He is quite rattled. He is very much the sort of creature your cynical side believes all priests to be. However, his disbelief in his own religion's dogma has been seriously rattled. It seems many of the Church's senior people shared the vision of Saint Strait.

  I won the intelligence award with my response. "Wha?"

  Although Bishop Carnifan was sent here, he came principally to satisfy himself that his own disbelief is justified.

  Ah! He has decided to be straightforward and forthcoming, having realized that it is impossible for humans to lie to the Loghyr.

  Bullhooley. You can lie to a Loghyr any time you want. You just have to know how. And have to be willing to practice on a daily basis.

  Bishop Carnifan hobbled to the chair I usually used, lowered himself gingerly. He folded his hands in his lap. He looked the absolute picture of the perfect holy man and he knew it. It was the sort of image cynical priests have cultivated for generations. He intoned, "Kamow. Bondurant. Would you step into the hallway for a moment, please?"

  "Sir?"

  "I want to consult Mr. Garrett privately."

  He is about to exercise his curiosity.

  I caught the edge of his message to Dean cautioning him that brothers Bondurant and Kamow would be leaving the room and ought not to be allowed to exercise their own curiosity about our domicile.

  The door closed behind the last young priest. I told Carnifan, "They're all real. Every last one of them, from the least sprite to the biggest thunderbasher, no matter how ridiculous we've imagined them. But they sure aren't what you priests have been telling the rest of us."

  The Bishop's jaw sagged again. He glared at the Dead Man. "Of course." He considered Morley, who leaned against a bookcase and said nothing, just looked like a stylish mannequin. I had, quite intentionally, not introduced him, nor had I explained his presence.

  The Dead Man nudged me.

  I said, "You want to know what happened last night, eh? You want to hedge some bets by getting the straight skinny from a guy who really has talked to gods? You want to know if there's an angle for you or the Church anywhere in this? I don't blame you. If I was a priest I'd be feeling real uncomfortable about now."