by Glen Cook
I reiterate. She does not figure in either mythology. The cherub springs from another family of religions entirely.
“I heard you. Give me a break. Imar and Lang are both the kinds of guys who grab whatever and whoever wherever and whenever they think they can get away with it. And probably don’t much care if they get caught.”
Stipulated. That is not in dispute. It is beyond dispute. But it may not be relevant. What troubles me is this anomaly, these players who do not fit the game. This girl, the cherub, even the winged horses. Anomalies always worry me. Your better course may have been to stay with the girl until you learned who she was and what she wanted.
“Maybe.” Hindsight makes geniuses of us all. “And maybe if I had done that, right now I would be the meat in somebody’s stew.”
We really are contrary this morning, are we not?
“Damned straight. The whole crew. Me, myself, and I. Happens every time I find my partner blowing my hard-earned in order to collect political rumors. Wasting it on people like Winger, that we know too well, and on that Agonistes, that we don’t know at all.”
Both are entirely trustworthy within the limits of the tasks they were asked to perform.
“Yeah? What happens when somebody out there starts wondering why you’re asking questions? Political people are born paranoid. If they interrogate Winger, she’ll tell them anything she thinks they want to hear to get herself out of it. We could end up with Relway’s thugs all over us, or The Call, or somebody out of the Cantard, or the for gods’ sake Pan-Tantactuan Fairy Liberation Army...”
You are becoming excited. Please restrain yourself.
Grumble grumble.
You fail to appreciate the real magnitude of the crisis gripping TunFaire. And you fail to accept my ability to protect myself.
“It ain’t you looking out for your butt that I’m worried about, Old Bones. You’ve always done a truly outstanding job of covering number one. It’s my ass ending up in a sling that worries me.”
Always the self-centered, demanding...
“Don’t play that game with me, Chuckles. It’s time you paid your rent. I’m calling. Tell me how to deal with this gods mess.”
What do you know about the rash of strange fires in the Baden neighborhood?
“Huh?” Talk about your blindsider. But he does that. One of his minds will be mulling over something not remotely related to anything under discussion and it will pop right out. “I’ve been busy. You would have noticed if you weren’t worrying about things like fires and Glory Mooncalled. What about these fires?”
I do not know. Several of my visitors have mentioned a series of unexplained, fatal fires. Not arson. Nothing burns but the victim himself, apparently, unless he sets fire to something himself.
“Sounds grisly.”
Perhaps. It is only a curiosity, of course, but I gather there was no connection between the victims, none of whom were the kind of people who get themselves assassinated.
“Great. Sounds like the perfect puzzle to keep you out of my hair on a long winter’s day. So put it on the shelf till the snows come back. Give me a hint here. What about these gods? Are we even dealing with gods?”
Again, the amount of energy being expended and the number of players involved militates against it being a confidence action. Indeed, it would be possible for a cabal of wizards to produce the effects you have encountered. But to what purpose such effort? There is no hint of any stake other than that proclaimed by the principals. This appears to be a straightforward struggle for divine status.
“Status?” Got me again. Another blindsider.
Of course. Do you accept as absolute and literal their expectation of total oblivion if they are driven from the Dream Quarter?
“Pretty much. They were real intense about it. You’re right, though. They could set up in a storefront somewhere. Plenty of crackpot outfits do.”
And there you have it. If you are not established in the Dream Quarter, yours is not a serious religion. You are a focus for lunacy. A bad joke. Even if you have a hundred times the followers of a respectable cult.
“But that would win you a place in the Dream Quarter.”
True. Although you would carry a stigma for generations. Like new money amidst old. You see my point?
“Theirs, too. You got only a couple, three followers left and you get the old eviction notice, then you try to set up shop in an abandoned sausage cookery, your followers maybe won’t show up for services anymore. Too embarrassing. They might sign on with some other crew who knew the right people and worshipped in the right place. So maybe you are dead if you’re out. It’s just not sudden.”
They might see it that way.
“So suggest me a plan. Sit tight?”
I am applying some thought to the matter. I feel it is unlikely that the pantheons remain ignorant of your whereabouts, despite our precautions. It remains to be seen if they will accept inactivity — especially once someone realizes that you are the key.
“You think they will?”
I reasoned it out easily enough. They are less able, constitutionally, to consider a mortal closely, but eventually it will occur to someone that you entered that temple as though there was no seal upon it.
“Could have been No-Neck. He was with me.”
No doubt he will pay for that.
“He deserves a warning.”
He does. I will see to it. He seemed to mull something over. I let him ferment. Events could become exciting, I fear, once that conclusion is reached. Particularly if one of the Godoroth reaches it first.
“Huh? You want to explain?”
He was in a mood. His usual response would be to tell me to work it out for myself. You suggested that Lang had eyewitness knowledge of your visit with the Godoroth. I suggest we seriously entertain the possibility that, in fact, he did hear from an eyewitness.
“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 T
here.
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 knew 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 bu
t 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.
