by Glen Cook
‘Are you going to help?”
“You haven’t told me anything. I don’t even know who I would be representing. I know the name of one lovely who dotes on devastation. I know the name of a long drink of water who has feathered ears. That’s not much.”
“Jorken the Messenger. He is of no consequence.”
“Then there are the big guys. Daiged, Rhogiro, and Ringo? What are they?”
“Avars. We inherited them. They were servants of the Old Ones. They have no attributes but strength.”
“Don’t forget ugly. They’re really big on ugly.”
“You have no idea. And of course, being you, you’re really interested in Star.”
“Star?”
“She has an older name, but it means Morning Star. She is the whore avatar of Woman, the Temptress, the temple prostitute who always comes across.”
“How romantic.”
“I could see the romance in your eyes whenever you looked at her.”
“Some things we can’t control.”
“Or you wouldn’t have followed Adeth.”
“Adeth?”
“The one trying to lead you into a trap. You are lucky we were watching. You would not have enjoyed her company as much as Star’s.”
“The redhead? Some things we can’t control.”
“If you must lose it, concentrate on Star. She might get interested. She hasn’t turned it on for you yet, Garrett.”
Wow. She ought to bottle and sell that indifference, then. Be a comedown from the god racket, but she would get rich and famous and maybe famous would put her feet on the ladder back to the top. I could get rich myself, managing her. Cut myself a percentage of the take and...
Sssss!
Snakes out of green hair. Magodor was irritated. I don’t think she could read my mind, but she was bright enough to realize I wasn’t paying attention. I came alert fast. They might not be gods, but they might believe they were and had every right to be vicious and capricious. I put on my killer grin, hoisted an eyebrow charmingly, said, “I’m awake! I’m awake!” same as I used to tell the sergeant of the guard when he caught me with my attention wandering back in those good old Marine Corps days, dancing with the Venageti in the islands.
“You don’t seem especially interested.”
“Consider the mortal’s viewpoint. He’s been kidnapped. He has a knife across his throat. Somebody supposedly wants to hire him, but he can’t find out what for. You haven’t said a word about payment. The one thing that does come across is that these would-be employers don’t look any more trustworthy or stable than any other gods.”
With every word sweet Maggie grew less attractive. I quit before she decided to drop me down a hole and interview elsewhere. “Why not finish telling me about the others?”
I basked in the pale green light of her disapproval. She wasn’t used to backtalk. But she took control. Maybe she was desperate.
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 nig
ht 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 longer. “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 hir
ed 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?
