by Glen Cook
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.”
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 nu
dged 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.”
The Dead Man decided to have fun with the situation, too. Suddenly I was reliving the the highs and lows of recent days as His Nibs sucked them out of me and pounded them right into the Bishop’s brain.
He didn’t leave out one damned thing. He rooted through my head for every glimpse and nuance, exactly as I had suffered it all, and he put good buddy Bishop Melton Carnifan through it exactly as though he was living it all himself. This time around it lasted only half an hour — and didn’t hurt near so bad because I knew I would get through it — but that old boy came out exactly familiar with what it was like to deal direct with TunFaire’s swarms of gods.
What a cruel thing to do, even to a man who had been an atheist on the inside.
Morley stood with fingers pinching chin, puzzled, as Carnifan displayed a catalog of changes. The Dead Man had given him nothing.
Give the Bishop time to get his bearings, Garrett.
I did so.
Carnifan recovered quickly. His eyes focused. He demanded, “That’s really true?”
“Would I make up something that absurd? That’s exactly the way it happened.”
“I can’t go back with that.”
“Make something up.” He didn’t get it. He just looked at me strangely. I asked, “Who’s going to believe you?”
Carnifan actually smiled. “Point taken. Nobody is going to want to.”
“What did you really want here?”
“Not what you’ve given me. I didn’t believe all that was anything but extremely weird weather. I thought we were just jumping on it to market our product. But now you’ve convinced me that the gods do exist. All of them, probably including a lot I’ve never heard of. But you’ve also convinced me that that is worse than having no gods at all.”
I agreed, privately. “But the belief in what they could be... That’s a comfort to a lot of people.”
“And just the opposite to me. This has been a cruel day, Mr. Garrett.” His eyes glazed momentarily. He asked, “It’s not over yet, is it? This shakeout. There are loose ends. There are traces of several conspiracies, some of which may not have run their course.”
I rubbed my forehead. I had enjoyed life much more back when my worst worry was how unhappy I had made some crime kingpin. The Bohdan Zhibak returned to mind. Ten thousand shadows had infested those hills. Every single one of those absurdities had to know my name now. I never liked catching the eyes of the lords on the Hill. How much more dangerous would catching the interest of the gods be?
And I had, for certain. Else this sleazeball bishop would not have come visiting. Saint Strait, eh? Spokesman for the Board. Probably as straight as his servant Brother Carnifan. I wondered if every church and temple in the Dream Quarter was bulging with priests experiencing bizarre visions featuring me in some role.
Worse, were they all going to turn up here to hear words of wisdom, like I was some kind of prophet?
“Damn! What an opportunity,” I mused aloud. “I could...”
Morley and Bishop Carnifan eyed me curiously. The Dead Man sent a mental chuckle. A pity you do not have an appropriate mind-set. It might be amusing to play the prophet game — particularly if we could arrange continued contacts with these deities.
I said, “Weider’s difficulties are starting to look attractive.” I turned to the bishop. “Brother. Father. Bishop. Whatever. I don’t want to be rude, but I’ve had a real rough couple of days and you’re not helping anything.”
The Dead Man continued to speculate. Perhaps Mr. Playmate could join us as front man. He has wanted to assume the religious mantle for some time. My partner was as cynical as I about some things. It seemed that even concrete proof of the existence of gods didn’t soften his religious skepticism.
I told Carnifan, “Unless there is something specific I can still do, I really wish you would go away.” I softened that with a conspiratorial smile. “And please spread the word in the Dream Quarter. I can’t do anything for anybody else, either. Far as I’m concerned, my part in this insanity is over.”
Nog is inescapable.
I jumped a yard. But the Dead Man couldn’t keep a mental straight face.
60
Carnifan departed. His gang looked like a small, dark army slithering up Macunado Street. Using the peephole, I watched the redhead watch them go.
“Hey, Old Bones. What was that really all about?”
The Bishop — and, presumably, many other shakers in the Dream Quarter — erroneously assumed a greater and more favored role, for you than was the case. If you examine their position and way of thinking, it should be no surprise that many priests will set new records for conclusion jumping.
“What?”
You have been driven into an untenable position. You are dealing with men who, in most institutions, have taken their gods entirely on faith for dozens of generations. Now they are learning that one man’s genuine contacts have proven the whole process trivial. The gods, of all stripes, turned out to be small-minded, petty creatures with no more vision or aspiration than most mortals.
“I never did worry much about being popular.”
Life could get difficult.
“Hey, I’m a famous cynic. Remember? I can talk, but I can’t produce concrete proof. Even if I got some great god like Hano to step up and confess, most true believers wouldn’t buy it. You ask me, the great wonder that makes religion work is the fact that otherwise rational beings actually accept the irrational and implausible dogmas underlying them.”
Believers are not a problem. However, those who live off the believers could be — particularly if their continued existence and prosperity depend upon the good will of their believers.
Morley asked, “What’s going on, Garrett?”
We ignored him.
I entered one of my more intellectual remarks. “Huh?”
The man in the street will be no problem. He has other troubles. Economics and riots are more threatening today. Priests, feeling their livelihoods imperiled, might represent short-term threats, till they understand that we are indifferent...
“Speak for yourself, Chuckles.” I’d as soon put them all out of business. The sanctimonious emotional gangsters. I reminded, “Adeth is back across the street.”
Indeed. And the one great tool we need has not yet been invented.
“Huh?” That was fast becoming my favorite word.
A godtrap!
“Ha ha. What did Cat have hidden inside?”
He avoided a direct answer. That child can be very opaque.
Morley headed for the door. “I’m not big on being talked around and over. Obviously, I’m not needed here anymore.”
Not entirely true, Mr. Dotes. Exercise patience, if you will, while Garrett and I discuss threats more immediate than any you yourself can help us avert.
That was sufficiently obscure. Morley donned an air of put-upon patience.
I told him, “You want to break away from The Palms and meet me someplace in keeping with my station, I’ll tell you about the whole mess. After we figure out how to keep from getting gobbled up by the loose ends.”
Dotes eyed me briefly, some secret smile stirring the corners of his mouth. “It’s always the loose ends that get you, Garrett. You particularly because you refuse to take the pragmatic step when you can. You love this grand pretense of cynicism, but whenever you face what you consider a moral choice you inevitably opt for belief in the essential goodness of humanity — however often humanity grinds your nose in the fact that it is garbage on the hoof.”
“We all need a moral polestar, Morley. That’s how we convince ourselves that we’re the good guys. Garbage on the hoof is garbage because somewhere so
mebody told it it’s garbage on the hoof.”
“Which, of course, absolves those guys of all responsibility for their own behavior. They don’t have to stop and decide before they do something.”
Wait a minute. How come the professional bad guy was dishing up the law-and-order arguments? “What’s this devil’s advocate stuff?”
“Because you try to complicate everything with peripheral issues.”
“I can’t help that. It’s my mother’s fault. She could bitch for an hour about anybody, but she found the good in everybody, too. No matter how bad somebody screwed up, she could find an excuse for them.”
This discussion, in one form or another, has been going on for years. Neither of you has done more than entertain the other with it. I suggest we not waste time on it. Mr. Dotes. Unless you would like to assist Mr. Tharpe and Miss Winger...
I lost him there, except for an echo that included Glory Mooncalled’s name. I wished he would forget Glory Mooncalled, the Cantard war, and all his other hobbies. I wished he would stick to business, just for a while. Maybe a couple of weeks. Maybe till we got everything squared away and he could snooze to his heart’s desire while I loafed and experimented with new strains of beer. Till Dean could spend his days just being inventive in the kitchen, with no need to distress himself answering the door.
Idly, I wondered how expensive it would be to have a spell cast so people couldn’t find any particular address when they came looking.
Nog is inescapable, the Dead Man reminded me.
“I know. I know. Morley, take your ill-gotten gains and scoot. Go con the rich johns so they’ll pay big money to suck down carrot juice cocktails while gobbling turnip steaks.”
Dotes took that opportunity to explain to me, at some length, how my health and disposition would improve dramatically if I would just let him set up a dietary plan customized to my peculiar lifestyle.
“But I like being just plain old crabby Garrett who gorges on bloody steaks and leaves the rabbit food for rabbits so they get nice and plump before we roast them.”
“‘Crabby’ is the key word here, Garrett. You take most of your vegetable input in liquid form. I’m sorry, beer just doesn’t contain enough essential fiber, which you have to have to...”
