Petty Pewter Gods

by Glen Cook

  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 version 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.

  I didn’t commence my rebuttal till I was safely away from any branch likely to serve as an aerial outhouse.

  12

  I headed for my house. The girl was long gone.

  Used to be whenever I was out I had to knock so Dean would let me in. Before he left town he looted my savings to have a key lock installed so I could let myself in. Being a bright boy, I had my key with me. I used it.

  The door opened an inch and stopped. Dean had the chain on.

  I closed the door gently, took a moment to collect myself, knocked briskly. The Goddamn Parrot started up inside. O Wonder of Horrors, the little vulture had made it home on his own. I tried to avoid worrying about what kind of omen that might be.

  I stepped back while I waited, studied the face of my house. It was a very dark brown, built of rough brick. I saw several places where the mortar needed tuck-pointing. The upstairs window trim needed fresh paint. Might be a job for Saucerhead some time when he wasn’t tied up cracking skulls.

  “Damn it, Dean! Come on! If you’ve had a heart attack and I’ve got to bust the door down I’m gonna break your legs.”

  There was a horrendous squawl behind me. I whirled. A huge, ugly ogre had gotten too near a donkey cart. A wheel had crushed his toes. He was bounding around on one foot offering to whip all comers.

  “Ah, shuddup!” an old granny lady advised. She hooked the heel of his good foot with the crook of her umbrella. He went down hard. Ogres are solid-bottomed fellows, as a rule. This one was no exception. His breath deserted him in a mighty whoof. The cobblestones buckled. I might have a traffic hazard out front for months now. Maybe years. Who knew when a city crew would come and actually do something?

  The crowd howled and mocked the ogre. Ogres are not popular because they are just not nice people, generally, but this was an especially tough crowd. They would have laughed had he been a sweet little old nun. Times had the mob in a vicious humor.

  I spied my new friend Adeth. She wore a darker, longer wig and had changed apparel, but I was sure it was her. She moved like a cat now, without wasted motion, absolutely graceful. Maybe while Dean made up his mind to answer the door I could stroll over there and invite her to dinner.

  I hammered the door some more. Then I got my key out again. I would unlock the damned thing again, then kick the chain loose. I was in one bad mood.

  My head still throbbed like a couple of pixies were in there waltzing in combat boots.

  Dean opened up as I reached with the key. “We have to talk,” I told him. “Let’s rehash the argument over that damned lock that cost me more than most guys make working twelve hours a day for two months.”

  “What happened?”

  “I couldn’t get into my own house, that’s what happened! Some damned fool put the chain on!” The Goddamn Parrot was in fine voice. “When did that damned thing come home? How did it get inside?”

  “Hours ago, Mr. Garrett. I thought you sent it.” He nodded his head toward the Dead Man’s room, scowled. “He told me to let it in.” Dean shuddered.

  On cue, I heard from Old Bones. Garrett. Come here. I want to review events of the past few months.

  Him and his hobbies. “What you’re going to hear about is events of the past few hours.”

  Dean shivered again. The Dead Man gives him the creeps. He has as little to do with His Nibs as he can.

  “That dressed-up buzzard over there should of let you know I was having some trouble.”

  “I’ll make some tea,” Dean said, by way of offering a white flag.

  “Sounds good. Thanks.” When he gets those big hurt eyes it is hard to stay mad at him. “But you, you traitor, you deserter,” I snapped through the doorway of the small front room, “you’re going to star in an experiment to see if parrots make good hasenpfeffer.” The shape my head was in, I was real short on tolerance.

  I went into the Dead Man’s room.

  Pickled parrot?

  “He must be good for something.”

  Do I detect a measure of crabbiness?

  “Things are closing in on me. I was getting used to not having to deal with Dean’s nagging. I was getting used to not having to deal with your outrageous demands. Then you woke up. He came home. I went out for a walk and a bunch of ugly wazoos bopped me on the head.”

  The picture the bird brought in had you lunging through a coach without the forethought to open the nether exit.

  He has moments when he looks beyond the end of his nose. And an ugly nose it is, too.

  The Dead Man has a human look to him. You glance into his room — the biggest in the house and poorly lighted at his insistence even though he cannot see — and
your gaze is drawn to a wooden chair at the room’s center. Maybe you could call it the Dead Man’s throne. It is massive — but it has to be to support four hundred and some pounds. He has not moved in all the years I have known him. He has grown seedier. Though he can protect himself if he concentrates, mice and bugs do nibble when his attention wanders.

  His outstanding feature, other than size, is his schnoz. It’s like an elephant’s trunk a little over a foot long.

  Bad day?

  “It was a bad day when I got woke up at a totally ridiculous hour, thank you very much. It has gone downhill ever since. Why don’t you just dig into my head?”

  I would prefer that you told it. I get more subtext examining the subjective side.

  This from a guy who insisted I had to maintain my emotional distance when I reported to him. We might as well be married. You can’t win with him.

  This is not good.

  “Hey, I hardly got started.”

  I read you. These are not friendly gods. These are old-style gods, all wrath and thou shalt not.

  “You know them?”

  Dean brought in a tray with teapot, honey, cup, spoon. What? Usually he just handed me a mug ready to go. Was he kissing up?

  Only by reputation. They have been marginal pantheons since the beginning, deities of ancient nomadic immigrants. Both religions were too cold and hard to win many converts. They are much alike.

  “Oh, your head!” Dean said. He was looking straight down at the top of my conk. “No wonder you’re in a black mood. Don’t move. I’ll clean that up.” He bustled out.

  Apparently your skull is as thick as I have claimed.

  “Huh?”

  Your head wound is worse than you realized.

  “What did I say? The good news just piles up.” I reflected on what he had sent. “I got a question.”

  Yes? I felt a mental smirk.

  “Back when we dealt with that crazy Loghyr you told me Loghyr never found proof of the existence of any gods and claimed logic suggests they can’t exist. I believe you said ‘They are not necessary to explain anything. Nature does not provide that which is not needed.’”

  That is correct. There is no concrete proof that any of the deities worshipped in this city exist as independent entities, outside the imaginations of those with the will to believe.

  “Who tried to toss me through that coach door, then? You telling me they were scamming?”

  That is a possibility deserving of examination. But to your question. For the sake of argument, your interlocuters were indeed Daiged, Rhogiro, and Ringo. Magodor gave you your answer in her remarks.

  Oh boy. Here came my favorite part of our relationship, the part where he tries to expand my horizons by forcing me to expand my intellect.

  Dean came back with our first aid stuff. I keep a good home medicine cabinet. For a while I had a girlfriend who was a doctor. She fixed me up because I seem to get dinged up every time I turn around.

  “I’m a little woozy here, Chuckles. How’s about you just hand it to me this time?”

  All the span is gone out of you, Garrett. The very nature of their situation should shriek the answer. If they fall off the Street of the Gods, if they are forced to leave the Dream Quarter, if they lose their last True Believer, they cease to exist.

  “Ouch!” Dean was dabbing at my head with a hot, wet rag. “You mean I wouldn’t have this dent in my head if somebody didn’t believe in the ugly boys?”

  Essentially.

  Dean asked, “Who sewed this up for you, Mr. Garrett?”

  “Sewed what?” And to His Nibs, “But they exist on their own. Nobody dreamed what was happening to me.”

  Dean told me, “You have three... six... nine stitches here. You must have bled pretty bad.”

  “No wonder I’m so weak. I thought it was a concussion.”

  “Might be that, too.”

  They need only be imagined and believed in fervently enough, on the right level. They assume an existence of their own, within the attributes assigned them.

  “Careful!” I snapped at Dean. “That’s tender. They must have given me something to make it not hurt. Ouch! Damnit!...”

  “Don’t be such a pansy.”

  “You aren’t digging for gold. Old Bones, your theory is absurd.”

  Gods are absurd, Garrett. And it is a hypothesis, not a theory. A theory is supported by experimental proof.

  “I’m just looking to see if there’s any infection,” Dean grumbled, doing his hurt thing.

  I ignored him, told the Dead Man, “There you go splitting hairs.”

  “Theory” is a much-abused word, particularly by those in the divinity trades. Be careful, Dean. If those stitches break, his brain may leak out. Have you formed any plans, Garrett? To deal with your situation?

  My situation. “I take it I need to worry in a big way.” When the Dead Man sets aside his own self-centered interests, I know he is troubled deeply. It was obvious that he had no problem believing that I could have fallen afoul of real gods and not just sleight-of-hand con folk somehow setting me up.

  I answered his question. “I don’t have a clue. That’s why I came home. Are you going to pay your rent?” Though he insists he is a full partner, the most work he does is aimed at getting out of doing anything constructive.

  “Right now I don’t see any choice but to play along.”

  Indeed. Wriggling out of this will require intense self-discipline and long hours of work by all concerned.

  “Don’t whine. I hate it when you whine. You were way overdue to kick in around here anyway. You could’ve saved me a ton of grief with Maggie Jenn if you would’ve just woke up.” He had unraveled the mystery at the heart of my most recent case before I had finished telling the first half of the tale. It was a case he had slept through stubbornly.

  13

  It was great to be in the righteous right so solid I could bury my spurs in the Dead Man.

  “Will you hold still?” Dean snapped. “Looks like a little pus here. Let me clean it out so we won’t have to cauterize later.”

  I had a vision of my handsome face set off by a strip of scar tissue skewed across my scalp. I held still, but it hurt.

  Dean said, “Miss Tate was here while you were away, Mr. Garrett. She...”

  “She must have been watching the place.” To know he was home so soon after he arrived. Tinnie probably shouldn’t be the ex-girlfriend. She was waiting for me to make the first move toward reconciliation. I liked to think.

  “News travels fast, Mr. Garrett.”

  “Did it have some help?”

  “It’s possible.” Dean is as stubborn as I am. He is determined to get me hooked up with Tinnie Tate or Maya Stubbs, both of them beautiful, squared-away sweethearts who deserve Prince Charmings who are the real thing.

  The Dead Man sent, Miss Tate was as charming, witty, and beautiful as ever and her companion, Miss Weider, cannot be encompassed by normal superlatives. Nevertheless, their petition will have to wait.

  “Alyx Weider?” Those two must have buttered him up big. He has no use whatsoever for the female of my species — or any other species, as far as I have seen. I’m sure that is why he tries to sabotage most of my romances. He doesn’t think most women deserve me.

  Them pigs were flying formation today.

  Dean tends toward the opposing opinion.

  He said, “I believe Miss Tate did introduce her as Alyx.” He did something to my head that sent a ribbon of pain streaking from my scalp to my toenails.

  “You’re on my list, Dean. Someday I’ll get my chance to patch you up.”

  I am on retainer as chief of security at Weider’s brewery. My role is to drop in unexpectedly and check employee honesty. I saved Weider from being robbed blind a long time back. The job was my reward. Old man Weider has been trying to get me on full time ever since. There are times when a regular job looks real good, even if I would have to call somebody else boss.

  Alyx was the old ma
n’s baby, much younger than the rest of his sprats. I had not seen her for some time. She had been a lovely but shy girl at sixteen. I was surprised to hear that she had come to the house. Her dad wasn’t the sort to let his baby girl out, especially in today’s TunFaire.

  Miss Tate brought her. There is something happening within the Weider family, possibly having to do with The Call and other radical fringe human rights groups. We owe them an interest but this mess must take precedent. Gods! Garrett! Garrett! At best you are an agnostic. But still you become entangled with a clutch of redundant deities.

  “Like I went looking for them? I’m not agnostic, though. I’m indifferent. My philosophy is, you leave the gods alone and usually they’ll leave you alone.”

  “Another one bites the dust,” Dean said.

  “Huh?” He find a nit?

  “Another of your adolescent fantasies.”

  Dean is a religious man. I never pressed him, but I do not understand his blind devotion to his peculiar monotheistic mythology when we are plagued by a thousand other deities and, obviously, those gods occasionally really do mess around with mortals. The human capacity for selective blindness appears to be infinite.

  For me the religion business becomes problematic when the gods outnumber their worshipers.

  Well, in some cases. One of which I seem to have stumbled into. I told the Dead Man, “You sound like you’re actually interested. Maybe I ought to be suspicious. But I don’t think there’s time.”

  Exactly. Long hours and rigorous self-discipline lie ahead. Your first chore will be to visit the Royal library and sweet-talk your friend into loaning us whatever books they have devoted to these religions.

  “Uh... that might not be so easy.”

  Make peace.

  “It’s not that. Linda Lee and I get along fine. I found some rare books she let get away.”

  Find me some books. Dean! Put aside your prejudice for a moment. Go to Mr. Dotes’ establishment...

  “That may not be any good either. Morley has gone upscale. He might be trying to put his whole past behind him.”